The Grass Crown

by Colleen McCullough

  The embryonic man of thought shut his study door and bolted it against his mother, then burst into tears.

  On his birthday Cicero returned to the booth on the Campus Martius, knees shaking, and underwent a much shorter version of the original questioning.

  "Whole name including cognomen?"

  "Marcus Tullius Cicero Junior."

  "Tribe?"

  "Cornelia."

  "Class?"

  "First."

  The scrolls of orders for those reporting today were told over and his scroll found; it would be given to him to present to his commanding officer. The practical Roman mind did not overlook the possibility that verbal orders might be ignored. A copy would already be on its way to the recruitment officers in Capua.

  The chairman of the committee laboriously read the fairly extensive remarks written on Cicero's orders, then looked up coldly.

  "Well, Marcus Tullius Cicero Junior, there's been a timely intercession on your behalf," said the chairman. "Originally we had placed you for service as a legionary and you would have gone to Capua. However, a special request has come from the Princeps Senatus that you be seconded to staff duties with one of the consuls. Accordingly, you have been posted to the staff of Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo. Report to him at his house at dawn tomorrow for his instructions. This committee notes that you have undergone no sort of preliminary training, and suggests therefore that you put in all your time until you take up your duties on the exercise fields of the Campus Martius. That is all. You are dismissed."

  Cicero's knees shook even harder as the relief flooded through him. He took the precious scroll and hurried off. Staff duties! Oh, all the gods favor you, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus Princeps Senatus! Thank you, thank you! I will prove myself invaluable to Gnaeus Pompeius—I'll act as his army historian or compose his speeches and I'll never need to draw a sword!

  He had no intention of attending any training exercises on the Campus Martius, for he had tried that in his sixteenth year, only to discover that he lacked neatness of foot, dexterity of hand, quickness of eye, presence of mind. Within a short time of being set to learn the drill with his wooden sword, he had found himself the focus of everybody's attention. But not—as in the Forum—an admiring, awestruck circle—his antics on the Campus Martius made his audience laugh itself sore in the sides. And as time went on he became every other boy's butt. His high shrill voice was mocked, his whinnying laugh was copied, his erudition thought beyond a joke, his elderliness worthy of the starring role in a farce. Marcus Tullius Cicero abandoned his military training, vowing never to resume it. No fifteen-year-old enjoys being a laughingstock, but this fifteen-year-old had already basked in the glow of grown men's approval, and considered himself a special case in every way.

  Some men, he had told himself ever since, were not constructed to be soldiers. And he was such a one. It was not cowardice! It was rather an abysmal lack of physical prowess. It couldn't be marked against him as a weakness of innate character. Boys his own age were stupid, little better than animals, they prized their bodies but never their minds. Didn't they understand that their minds would be adornments long after their bodies began to creak? Didn't they want to be different? What was truly so desirable about being able to plug a spear into the exact middle of a target, or whack the head off a straw man? For Cicero was clever enough to see that targets and straw men were a far cry from the battlefield, and that many of these juvenile killers of symbols would loathe the reality.

  At dawn the next morning he presented himself, wrapped in his toga virilis, at the house of Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo on the Forum side of the Palatine, wishing his father was with him for company when he saw how many hundreds of men were gathered there. A few recognized him as the rhetorical prodigy, but no one made any attempt to draw him into a conversation; he found himself gradually pushed into the most obscure corner of Pompey Strabo's vast atrium. There he waited for hours watching the crowd thin and waiting for someone to ask him his business. The new senior consul was Rome's most important man of the moment and all of Rome wanted a word with him or a favor from him. He also had a veritable army of clients, Picentines all, though Cicero had had no idea how many of these clients were resident in Rome until he experienced the enormous throng in Pompey Strabo's house.

  Perhaps a hundred men were left and Cicero was beginning to hope he would catch the eye of one of the seven secretaries when a lad of his own age or thereabouts sidled up to him and leaned against the wall to look him over. The eyes which flicked up and down were cool, dispassionate, and quite the most beautiful the brown-eyed Cicero had ever seen. So widely opened they seemed permanently to contain an expression of surprise, their color was a pure rich sky blue, vivid enough to deserve the term unique. A tumbled mass of bright gold hair owned two peculiarities; one was the quiff which stood up from the broad brow, the other a peak which grew down into the middle of the broad brow. Beneath this interesting mop there resided a fresh, rather perky face that had nothing Roman about it at all. The mouth was thin-lipped, the cheekbones broad, the nose short and snubbed, the chin dented, the skin pinkish and faintly freckled, the brows and lashes as gold as the hair. It was, however, a most likable face, and its owner after that initial examination of Cicero produced a smile so attractive that Cicero was won over.

  "Who might you be?" the lad asked.

  "Marcus Tullius Cicero Junior. Who might you be?"

  "I'm Gnaeus Pompeius Junior."

  "Strabo?"

  Young Pompey laughed without resentment. "Do I look cross-eyed, Marcus Tullius?"

  "No. But isn't it usual to adopt one's father's cognomen anyway?" asked Cicero.

  "Not in my case," said Pompey. "I intend to earn a cognomen for myself. I already know what it's going to be."

  "What?"

  "Magnus."

  Cicero emitted one of his neighing laughs. "That's a bit much, isn't it? 'Great'? Besides, you can't give yourself a cognomen. Other people give it to you."

  "I know. But they will."

  No stranger to self-confidence, Pompey's degree of it took Cicero's breath away. "I wish you luck," he said.

  "What are you here for?"

  "I've been posted to your father's staff as a cadet."

  Pompey whistled. "Oh, Edepol! He won't like you!"

  "Why?"

  The eyes lost their friendly gleam, became emotionless again. "You're a weed."

  "I may be a weed, Gnaeus Pompeius, but what I own by way of intelligence is better than anyone else's!" snapped Cicero.

  "That won't impress my father," said the son, looking down complacently at his own well-knit, broad-shouldered body.

  His answer reduced Cicero to miserable silence; the depression which from time to time haunted him more mercilessly than it did most people four times his age began to descend. He swallowed, looked at the floor, willed Pompey to go away and leave him alone.

  "There's no point in getting down in the dumps about it," said Pompey briskly. "For all he or I know, you might be a lion with sword and buckler! That's the way to his heart!"

  "I am not a lion with sword and buckler," said Cicero, voice squeaking. "I am not a mouse either, you understand. The truth is that I'm absolutely useless with my hands and feet, and it isn't anything I can control or improve."

  "You're all right when you're posturing up and down the Forum," said Pompey.

  Cicero gasped. "You know who I am?"

  "Certainly." The dense lashes fanned down demurely over the lustrous eyes. "I'm no good at that speechifying stuff, and that too is the truth. My tutors have been beating me senseless for years and got nowhere. To me it's just a waste of time. I can't be bothered learning the difference between sententia and epigramma, let alone fiddle with color and descriptio!”

  "But how can you hope to be cognominated Great if you don't know how to speak?" asked Cicero.

  "How can you hope to be called great if you can't use a sword?"

  "Oh, I see! You're going to become another Gaius Mar
ius."

  But the comparison did not please Pompey, who scowled. ' 'Not another Gaius Marius!" he snarled. " I shall be myself. And I'll make Gaius Marius look like a tyro!"

  Cicero giggled, his heavy-lidded dark eyes suddenly sparkling. "Oh, Gnaeus Pompeius, I'd like that!" he exclaimed.

  A presence loomed; both lads looked round. And there stood Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo, so strongly built he looked square, though he lacked imposing height. In looks he was not unlike his son, save that his eyes were not so blue, and were so badly crossed they did indeed seem to see nothing except the bridge of his own nose. They gave him an enigmatic as well as an ugly quality, for no one could assess what lay in them, so odd and off-putting was their configuration.

  "Who's this?" he asked his son.

  And Young Pompey did something so wonderful that Cicero was never, never able to forget it or cease to be grateful for it—he threw his muscular arm around Cicero's shoulders, and squeezed them.

  And he said cheerfully, as if it were of no consequence, "This is my friend Marcus Tullius Cicero Junior. He's been posted to your staff, Father, but you needn't worry about him in the least. I'll look after him."

  "Huh!" grunted Pompey Strabo. "Who wished you on me?"

  "Marcus Aemilius Scaurus Princeps Senatus," said Cicero in a very small voice.

  The senior consul nodded. "Oh, he would, the sarcastic cunnus! Sitting at home laughing his head off, I'll bet." He turned away indifferently. "As well for you, citocacia, that you're a friend of my son's. Otherwise I'd feed you to my pigs."

  Cicero's face burned. He came from a family which had always deplored salty language, his father deeming it unacceptably vulgar; to hear the senior consul say such words was a rude shock.

  "You really are a lady, Marcus Tullius, aren't you?" asked Pompey, grinning.

  "There are better and more picturesque ways of using our great Latin tongue than coarse imprecations," said Cicero with dignity.

  But his new friend stiffened dangerously. "Are you actually criticizing my father?" he demanded.

  Cicero retreated hastily. "No, Gnaeus Pompeius, no! I was reacting to your calling me a lady!"

  Pompey relaxed, began to smile again. "Just as well for you! I don't like anyone finding fault with my father." He glanced at Cicero curiously. "Bad language is everywhere, Marcus Tullius. Even our poets use it from time to time. It's written on the city's buildings, especially around the brothels and the public latrines. And if a general doesn't call the troops cunni and mentulae—and a lot worse!—they think he's a stuck-up Vestal."

  "I shut my eyes and my ears," said Cicero, then changed the subject. "Thank you for offering me your protection."

  "Think nothing of it, Marcus Tullius! Between us we make a decent pair, I think. You help me with my reports and letters, and I'll help you with your sword and buckler."

  "It's a deal," said Cicero, lingering in the same spot.

  Pompey, who had begun to move away, turned back. "Now what?"

  "I haven't given your father my orders."

  "Throw them away," said Pompey casually. "From today you belong to me. My father won't even notice you."

  This time Cicero followed him when he strolled off in the direction of the peristyle-garden. They found a seat in the chilly sun, and Pompey proceeded to demonstrate that though he disavowed any liking for rhetoric, he was yet a talker—and a gossip.

  "Did you hear about Gaius Vettienus?"

  "No," said Cicero.

  "He chopped off the fingers of his right hand to avoid doing his military duty. The urban praetor Cinna sentenced him to lifelong residence as a servant in the Capuan barracks."

  A shiver ran down Cicero's spine. "A peculiar sentence, don't you think?" he asked, his forensic interest stirred.

  "Well, they had to make some sort of example of him!

  He could not be let escape with an exile and a fine. We're not like eastern kings, we don't throw people into prison until they die or they grow old. We don't even throw people into prison for a month! I thought Cinna's solution was quite neat, actually," said Pompey with a grin. "Those fellows in Capua will make Vettienus's life a misery for absolutely ever!"

  "I daresay they will," said Cicero, gulping.

  "Well, come on, it's your turn!"

  "My turn to what?"

  "Say something."

  "I can't think of anything, Gnaeus Pompeius."

  "What's the name of Appius Claudius Pulcher's wife?"

  Cicero blinked. "I don't know."

  "For such a brain, you don't know anything, do you? I suppose I'll have to tell you. Caecilia Metella Balearica. Isn't that a mouthful of a name?"

  "It's a very august family."

  "Not as famous as my family will be!"

  "What about her?" Cicero asked.

  "She died the other day."

  "Oh."

  "She had a dream just after Lucius Julius returned to Rome to hold the elections," Pompey went on chattily, "and she went to Lucius Julius the next morning, told him Juno Sospita appeared to her and complained about the disgusting mess in her temple. Some woman apparently crawled in there and died in childbirth, and all they did was take her body away, they didn't wash the floor. So Lucius Julius and Caecilia Metella Balearica got some rags and buckets and went and scrubbed the temple out on their hands and knees. Can you imagine it? Lucius Julius got his toga filthy because he wouldn't remove it, he said he must do the goddess full honor. Then he went straight to the Curia Hostilia and promulgated his law about the Italians—and gave the House a nasty tongue-lashing about neglecting the temples and how did Rome expect to win the war when the gods weren't receiving their proper measure of respect? So the next day the whole House went off with rags and buckets and cleaned all the temples." Pompey stopped. "What's the matter?"

  "How do you know all this, Gnaeus Pompeius?"

  "I listen when people talk, even slaves. What do you do all day, read Homer?" Pompey countered.

  "I finished with Homer years ago," said Cicero complacently. "Nowadays I read the great orators."

  "And don't have an idea what's going on in the city."

  "Now I know you, I'm sure I'm going to learn. I take it that, having had her dream and cleaned up the temple of Juno Sospita, Appius Claudius Pulcher's wife drove home the lesson by expiring?"

  "Died very suddenly. A great disaster, Lucius Julius thinks. She was one of Rome's most honored matrons—six children, all a year apart in age, and the youngest just a year old."

  "Seven is a lucky number," said Cicero, who had a sharp wit.

  "Not for her," said Pompey, the irony escaping him. "No one can understand it, after six safe childbirths. Lucius Julius says the gods are angry."

  "Does he think his new law will appease divine displeasure?"

  Pompey shrugged. "I don't know. Nor does anybody else. All I know is that my father's in favor, so I'm in favor. My father intends to legislate the full citizenship for every Latin Rights community in Italian Gaul."

  "And Marcus Plautius Silvanus will soon legislate to extend the citizenship to any man with his name on an Italian municipal roll if he applies in person to a praetor inside Rome within sixty days of the passing of the law," said Cicero.

  "Silvanus, yes. But together with his friend Gaius Papirius Carbo," Pompey corrected.

  "Now this is more like it!" beamed Cicero, looking animated. "Laws and lawmaking—I love them!"

  "I'm glad someone does," said Pompey. "I think laws are a nuisance myself. They're always leveled at superior men of superior ability distinguishing themselves, especially at an early age."

  "Men cannot live without a system of laws!"

  "Superior men can."

  Pompey Strabo made no attempt to leave Rome, though he kept telling people that they wouldn't miss him or Lucius Cato because the urban praetor, Aulus Sempronius Asellio, was a very capable man. It soon became apparent, however, that the real reason he lingered was to keep an eye on the spate of legislation which followed th
e lex Julia. Lucius Porcius Cato Licinianus, the junior consul, left Pompey Strabo to it; this was one pair of consuls who were not amicable. Off Lucius Cato went to Campania, only to change his mind and locate himself in the central theater after all. Pompey Strabo had made no secret of his intention to continue the war in Picenum; yet it was Sextus Julius Caesar he sent to the siege of Asculum Picentum, though Sextus Caesar's chest was bad and the winter was the coldest anyone could remember. News came not long after Sextus Caesar set out that he had killed eight thousand rebel Picentines he caught changing from a fouled camp to a fresh one outside Camerinum. Pompey Strabo huffed, but remained in Rome.

  His lex Pompeia was going through the Comitia uneventfully. It granted the full Roman citizenship to every Latin Rights town south of the Padus River in Italian Gaul, and gave the Latin Rights to the towns of Aquileia, Patavium, and Mediolanum north of the Padus. All the people of these many large and prosperous communities now entered into his clientele, the reason why he had legislated in the first place. No true champion of citizen rights, Pompey Strabo then permitted Piso Frugi to handicap those benefiting from the three enfranchisement laws. At first Piso Frugi enacted a bill creating two new tribes into which all the new citizens everywhere would be placed, keeping the thirty-five tribes exclusively for old Romans. But when Etruria and Umbria began to rumble at the unfairness of being treated no better than Roman freedmen, Piso Frugi altered his law to put all the new citizens into eight of the old tribes plus the two freshly invented ones.

  The senior consul then held the censors' elections; Lucius Julius Caesar and Publius Licinius Crassus became censors. Even before he let the sacerdotal contracts, Lucius Caesar announced that in honor of his ancestor Aeneas he would remit all taxes levied upon the town of Troy, his beloved Ilium. As Troy was no more than a small village, he was let have his way without opposition. Scaurus Princeps Senatus—who might have objected—was being driven to distraction by the two refugee kings, Nicomedes of Bithynia and Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia, who wailed and bribed with equal fervor, finding it impossible to understand why Rome was more concerned with her war against the Italians than the coming war with Mithridates.