“My ancestor—whose name I bear—brought that home from Sicily during the Punic Wars,” came a voice behind me. Startled, I stepped away. “No, it’s all right. That blade has stood the test of time—I don’t think there is anything you could do to harm it.” The man stepped closer and admired the sword as well.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Quintus Sertorius, client of the Caepiones,” I said, extending my hand.
“Have we not? I always pretend so at these dinner parties. Much easier that way, nay?” He accepted my hand lazily and took a long pull of wine. “I am Sextus Caesar, brother of the recently enslaved man … married man, I mean,” he drawled, noticing the confusion on my face. I forced a laugh. “Client of Quintus? He must have you deep in the electoral filth then, eh?” He smiled, revealing wine-stained teeth.
“Not really. They keep me out of it for the most part—I assume because I am so new to all this.”
He laughed. “Or to keep you from wading in the filth before you’ve been properly broken in, more like!” He slapped my shoulder rather aggressively. I tried again to laugh. I was glad to have a private word with a transparent man, rather than be consumed by the noisy chatter of a room full of walking masks, but the way Sextus Caesar looked at me was unnerving. Behind his persiflage there was a coldness to him that is difficult to describe.
To my relief, Gnaeus and Caecilia entered the room, arm in arm.
“Your Grace.” Sextus bowed low, not minding that he spilled some of his wine.
“Ah, Sextus. How are you?”
“The gods bless me.”
“Not jealous of your brother, then?” Gnaeus tried to jest.
“Oh dear me! Of course not. I’d rather be shackled in a prison cell than shackled to one woman. Besides, a disappointment like me? My father would sooner marry off one of the guard dogs to a patrician ally.” Sextus was evidently very amused with himself, but we all had a hard time responding to this. “Don’t let me keep you. Find your way into the triclinium whenever you can. Hurry and get the honey-wine before it’s all gone.” He bowed again and stumbled out, leaving Caecilia and Gnaeus to exchange an indiscernible look.
We left the tablinum and followed the procession through the peristylum to the entrance of the triclinium. I found myself bewildered by the procedures of high society, as Gnaeus and Caecilia lined up beside each other and Quintus and Junia followed behind with Marcus at their sides.
As we entered the dining area, the butler slave shouted, “Gnaeus Caepio and wife Caecilia! Quintus Caepio, wife Junia, and son Marcus Caepio!” The guests gave a dandy clap and cheers of awe rose from the room. The slave stared at me with a raised eyebrow as I trailed after my patrons without an introduction.
Two beautiful slave girls led my patrons to couches in the center of the room, both in places of honor to the left of the open couch reserved for the bride and groom. I made my way to the wall and leaned there, observing the nobles in their natural setting.
I’ll admit that whoever was in charge of the decorations had done a splendid job. Garlands of scented white rose petals draped the walls, accented by silk shrouds hanging from the ceiling. The music of lyres, flutes, and tambourines accompanied the anxious buzz of gossip.
“Honey-wine from the foothills of Mount Vesuvius, the finest Falernian grape in Rome.” A slave knelt before me, extending a silver chalice filled to the brim.
“Thank you,” I said. Two slave girls removed my sandals and placed my feet in a bowl of water filled with perfume and rose petals. They dried my feet with steaming linen towels.
“Thank you, master,” one of the girls said in a thick accent. She was beautiful, presumably a German of some kind. I was awestruck; Caesar’s slaves were adorned only in the richest silk and were better kept than any I had ever seen.
Time went on as the patricians exchanged greetings and discussed current affairs, all the while picking delicately from the appetizers on the small, round tables placed before their couches. Finally, a hush fell over the room as the bride and groom arrived at the threshold. “Gaius Julius Caesar III and his new wife, Aurelia!” The guests all erupted in happy applause, and both the bride and groom bowed low before turning to give each other a quick kiss. They stepped down into the room and embraced their new fathers; Aurelia took the hand of the man I learned was Caesar II, a man half the height of most of the others and twice as hairy, while Julius embraced old Aurelius Cotta joyfully. I found myself smiling.
“Thank you all for coming here tonight to celebrate this momentous time in our lives. This is a happy day, friends! The union of our families will promote prosperity, not only for ourselves, but for all of Rome!” Julius said and taking his wife by the hand, he led her to the head of the room. I got the impression that everyone knew what was to follow, but I had no clue, given my complete lack of experience with patrician weddings—and for that matter, weddings in general. A scarlet tarp was brought forth and unraveled at the feet of the newlyweds, and then a sheep as white as Nursian snow was led forward.
A dagger was placed in the bride’s hand and Julius stood behind her, taking her delicate hands in his own.
“I sacrifice this lamb to the households gods, so that their favor will rest on our union forever more,” Aurelia said, her voice innocent and as sweet as the honey-wine. Hers was a striking figure: tall, slender, every tassel of her hair perfectly set. It amused me to think that such a creature could have been formed from a feeble man like Cotta, but his wife Rutilia proved how it was possible.
Julius guided Aurelia’s dagger to the lamb’s throat. The bride locked eyes with her new husband and didn’t look away as together they sliced the jugular. It bleated a single cry and the beast collapsed. Applause thundered through the room as the bride and groom walked off to clean themselves, while the slaves fell to cleaning the scene they’d left behind.
The first course arrived—stuffed lobster and moray eels drenched in hot sauce—but I refused what was offered me, deciding instead to introduce myself to those I could. I’ve always been rather quiet around strangers, not naturally personable in such circumstances, but I knew the opportunity to mingle with the upper crust of society was too great to pass up.
I introduced myself to Cotta’s son Gaius, who was discussing Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics with his uncle, Publius Rutilius Rufus.
“It’s good to meet you, friend,” Gaius Cotta said as he shook my hand. He was awkward and lanky, more like his father than his mother, although perhaps half his father’s weight. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and I remember that he seemed to have a perpetual cold. His uncle Rufus, on the other hand, was a soldier if ever I’d seen one. Rufus stood at attention all the while, even as he greeted me. He met my gaze with cool, calculating eyes. “Are you a soldier?” he asked.
“Who? Me? No,” I stammered. “I’ve thought about it but haven’t made my way to the registrar yet.”
“Well, you’ve got the build for it. You look like a soldier,” Rufus said, returning to his conversation with his nephew. My thoughts returned to Titus’s letter. Suddenly, Rufus’s words seemed like prophecy. After all, no one had ever told me I looked like a politician. I didn’t fit in here in Rome, but I imagined a camp in Gaul at my brother’s side would suit me just fine.
I made my way around the room, joining conversations wherever I could and finding each as awkward as the last. I could not always control my stutter.
After making rounds for a while, I noticed two stunning women speaking with each other in the corner of the room. I thought about approaching then, but even considering doing so was enough to make my palms sweat. Fortunately, they noticed my attention and came over to me.
“Greetings, I don’t believe we’ve met,” one said, extending her hand. “I am Julia, sister of the groom.” I accepted her hand and bowed my head.
“And I am Illia, the youngest of the Caesar brood.” They were both gorgeous. Julia, the elder, had pronounced cheekbones and the noblest eyes I’d ever seen, and her
skin and lips looked soft. They both had golden, radiant hair, straight and well kept at the top and as wavy as the Tyrrhenian Sea at the bottom. Illia looked much like her sister, but there was more youthful vitality in her eyes, less wisdom and perhaps more girlish mischief.
“I am Quintus Sertorius, client of the Caepiones.”
“Welcome to our home,” Julia said with a smile.
“Are you from the city?” asked Illia.
“I am from Nursia. I am here to learn from my patrons all that I can, but I have considered joining the legion,” I said, testing the idea that seemed so fresh that night.
“Gods, you should meet my husband. You would get along with him just fine,” Julia laughed.
“Is he here?”
“Bona Dea! No,” Illia giggled and touched my shoulder. “Do you not know who he is? Gaius Marius?” I am certain my eyes revealed my shock.
“You are married to Gaius Marius?”
“I am. It will be two years this April.”
“Don’t worry,” Illia jested. “You’re not the only one who is surprised.”
“Most of the men here don’t think very highly of my husband,” she said.
“He seems to be a brave man, ma’am.” I averted my gaze. How strange this was. Aurelius Cotta had sat with the other nobles, berating Marius and his lot, and all the while marrying his daughter to the brother-in-law of the Man with Two Names.
“It’s because my father is the cleverest bastard of them all.” Sextus Caesar appeared behind me and put his arm around my shoulders, startling me. “He married his eldest daughter to the most famous man in Rome and his son to the richest aristocrat’s daughter. Gods, even little Illia here is betrothed to Marius’s co-conspirator Sulla, who is in Africa with him presently.” Sextus swayed from the effects of his wine. “And I—I’m just the debauched eldest child who hasn’t yet been of any use to the old man.” He chuckled and belched.
Julia shook her head. “Nonsense, Sextus! You always talk like this. If Father thought for a moment you had the slightest interest in marriage he’d have you the finest bride in Rome.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He turned to me. “But I like my whores.” He winked as his sisters rolled their eyes.
“Enjoy your evening, Quintus Sertorius,” Illia said, batting her eyelashes as she led her sister away by the arm.
AT THE END of the night we bade our hosts farewell and returned to our litters.
“Patron, I have something I’d like to discuss with you,” I began before I even knew what I would say.
“One of those conversations? All right, what is it?” Quintus asked as the rest of the family climbed into their litters.
“I’d like to stand for military tribune.”
“Dear me,” he laughed and looked at me in bewilderment. “Why would you want to go and do something foolish like that?”
“I feel it’s a natural first step in beginning my career, and I believe it’s my duty.”
“But we need you here.”
“I believe that I’ve done all I can to help you in your electoral campaign. I can wait a few weeks until the voting begins, if you would like?” I heard myself almost pleading.
“No, no. You should stay here. We need you, and Rome is a far more fitting place for your talents than the muddy forests of Gaul or the endless deserts of Africa. Let the men with no ambition do the dying.” Quintus climbed into his litter and snapped his fingers for the journey home to begin, and I followed from a distance, swallowing both my pride and my frustration.
SCROLL VIII
DECEMBER 648 AB URBE CONDITA; TWO WEEKS UNTIL ELECTION.
The weeks leading up to the election are a haze to me now. I do not have much correspondence from that time, and so have little to refer to. I couldn’t bring myself to write home without news that relief would soon be headed that way, and I couldn’t bring myself to write Titus either. I told myself it was because I was upset at the contents of his letter, but in truth it was that I wished to tell him I would join him in Gaul as a tribune following the elections, and of course, that was not the case.
Regardless, little of real note took place. Quintus started spending less time around the domus and more time in the Forum. Whereas before he’d preferred to spend his hours reading poetry with his dear friend Reginus, he now did such things as speaking from the rostra. As I’ve mentioned before, I found Quintus to be a strange candidate for oratory—though it didn’t matter much. His speeches and their contents were essentially irrelevant, since his bid was all but bought ahead of time.
Gnaeus continued to handle all of their clients at the morning levy, promising them great things to come with the fresh season. He was optimistic, even joyful—going so far as to commission a large bust of Janus for his tablinum. Caecilia, meanwhile, dined often with Rome’s most noble ladies, and Junia kept feeding the birds.
I’ll admit that during this long while I debated going to see my friend Hirtuleius. The situation was difficult: duty required me to tell him of his grandfather’s passing, but due to our last confrontation, I was uncomfortable at the thought of approaching him. Even without the bad news I brought, I did not know how he would receive me. Finally, my better nature won out, and I set off for the Subura to see my old friend.
“Sertorius! It’s good to see you!” Hirtuleius greeted me as if nothing had happened between us.
“You as well, my friend. How have you been?”
“Fortuna smiles on me, as she does you, I hope?” I shrugged in response, and he continued, “Well, how was your visit home?”
“Honey and spice. It was good to see our fatherland, as you’d suppose, but it wasn’t easy. I’m afraid things have gotten worse.” At this, Lucius dropped his gaze. “And … I have something else to tell you.”
“Speak freely, amicus.”
“It’s best you take a seat,” I said. His expression became grave as we both sat at the table where we had so recently argued. I leaned over and placed my hand on his knee. My heart broke for him even before I spoke. “Your grandfather, Manius, has left us to join your ancestors.”
Lucius’s eyes strained shut. After some time, he inhaled deeply and looked up, as if the very spirit of Manius, with all of its stoic virtue, had flowed into Lucius’s veins.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I shall have to make a sacrifice to Dis Pater.” A silence followed, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll have to visit his grave when I return home. Was he interred on the ancestral grounds?”
“He was. All of Nursia sent him off with every honor that can be bestowed on a man. You would have been very proud.”
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”
“It was my duty, although I confess it’s no pleasure to relay such news. I grieve with you, amicus.”
“And what has become of my brother?”
“He is staying in my home, under the care of Volesa and my mother.” Lucius seemed relieved, and he locked eyes with me.
“You and your family are good people, then. I’ve always known that, but I am truly in your debt.”
“There is no debt, Lucius. This is what friends must do for one another during times of struggle.”
When we returned to happier topics, I told him of the Insteius twins, and we shared several laughs about old times and childhood memories.
“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” he said, catching me off guard.
“Oh, I understand. I’ve stayed longer than I meant to anyhow.”
“No, no, I just have prior engagements. But you should come with me.”
“Where to?”
“To the Field of Mars. I’m meeting with General Marius.” He must have noticed the look of calculation on my face, because, “Gerrae! He can’t infect you with his presence, can he? It won’t hurt to meet the man.”
“Yes, but …”
He raised his eyebrows and gave me a wily grin. “But what?”
“It could be dangerous for a cl
ient of the Caepiones to be seen with him.”
“Wait … spies? Where are the spies?” I couldn’t help but chuckle as he looked dramatically around the room, even going to his small window and peering out. “I don’t see any spies. Besides, Marius has his own reasons to be discreet. Come on, then. Let’s go.”
I could hardly refuse. Besides, I much preferred Lucius’s company to anyone else’s, so we set off at once to meet the most famous man in Rome.
ON OUR WAY, Lucius explained why Marius was still at the Field of Mars. Marius—certain of an impending victory over the Numidians in Africa—expected a Triumph for his service. He would doubtless be awarded one, Lucius said, but if Marius entered the sacred boundaries of Rome, he would lose his imperium and thus his right to a Triumph. Instead, he was merely “visiting” his troops in Italy to see how they were developing—though of course, we all knew he was also lobbying for the election of his son-in-law—while his quaestor, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, mopped up all the enemy remnants in Africa. According to my friend, Marius secretly desired to hold out until he could be awarded the command of the north, so he could receive a double triumph should he conquer that territory as well. However, Marius refused to ask for this honor, worrying he would be perceived as overly ambitious, and instead relied on his friends in Rome and his almost mythical reputation to earn him the title. It all seemed a little vain to me, but after everything I’d heard about the man, I decided I needed to meet him before drawing any conclusions.
The Field of Mars always smelled of fresh leather—especially when a large force was training there. A sound like distant thunder always followed the marching drills of the trainees, and as we approached, we heard the chattering and laughter of idle guards.
When we arrived at what was clearly Marius’s tent, Lucius snapped smartly to attention and saluted the sentries posted there.
“Lucius Hirtuleius, reporting to see Imperator Marius.”
The Man With Two Names Page 11
