“Oh, it’s personal!” said Marius, and laughed without humor.
“Tell me.”
“I once threw Dalmaticus’s little brother—the same who is undoubtedly going to be consul next year—into a pigsty at Numantia. Actually three of us did—and none of the three of us has got very far with the Romans who wield the real influence since, that’s certain.”
“Who were the other two?”
“Publius Rutilius Rufus and King Jugurtha of Numidia.”
“Ah! The mystery is solved.” Caesar put his fingertips together and pressed them against his pursed lips. “However, the accusation that you are a dishonorable client is not the worst slur attached to your name, Gaius Marius. There is another, more difficult to deal with.”
“Then before we go into that slur, Gaius Julius, how would you suggest I stop the client rumor?” asked Marius.
“By marrying one of my daughters. If you are accepted as a husband for one of my daughters, it will give the world to understand that I do not find any evidence of truth in the client story. And spread the tale of the Spanish pigsty! If possible, get Publius Rutilius Rufus to confirm it. Everyone will then have a more than adequate explanation for the personal quality of Caecilius Metellus dislike,” said Caesar, smiling. “It must have been funny—a Caecilius Metellus brought down to the level of—why, not even Roman pigs!”
“It was funny,” said Marius shortly, anxious to press on. “Now what’s this other slur?”
“You must surely know it for yourself, Gaius Marius.”
“I can’t think of a single thing, Gaius Julius.”
“It is said that you’re in trade.”
Marius gasped, stunned. “But—but how am I in trade differently from three quarters of the rest of the Senate? I own no stock in any company which entitles me to vote in or influence company affairs! I’m purely a sleeping partner, a provider of capital! Is that what’s said of me, that I take an active part in trade?”
“Certainly not. My dear Gaius Marius, no one elaborates! You are dismissed with a general sneer, the simple phrase ‘He’s in trade.’ The implications are legion, yet nothing concrete is ever said! So those without the wisdom to inquire further are led to believe that your family has been in trade for many generations, that you yourself run companies, farm taxes, get fat off the grain supply,” said Caesar.
“I see,” said Marius, tight-lipped.
“You had better see,” said Caesar gently.
“I do nothing in business that any Caecilius Metellus does not! In fact, I’m probably less actively involved in business.”
“I agree. But if I had been advising you all along, Gaius Marius,” said Caesar, “I would have tried to persuade you to avoid any business venture that didn’t involve owning land or property. Your mines are above reproach; they’re good, solid real estate. But for a New Man—well, company dealings aren’t at all wise. You should have stuck to only those ventures which are absolutely unimpeachable for a senator—land and property.”
“You mean, my company activities are yet another indication that I am not and never can be a Roman nobleman,’’ said Gaius Marius bitterly.
“Precisely!”
Marius squared his shoulders; to dwell upon the hurt of a manifest injustice was a waste of precious time and energy. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the alluring prospect of marrying a girl of the Julian house. “Do you really believe my marrying one of your daughters will improve my public image so much, Gaius Julius?”
“It can’t not.”
“A Julia... Why then shouldn’t I apply to marry a Sulpicia—or a Claudia—or an Aemilia—or a Cornelia? A girl from any of the old patrician houses would surely do as well—no, even better! I’d have the ancient name plus a great deal more current political clout,” said Marius.
Smiling, Caesar shook his head. “I refuse to be provoked, Gaius Marius, so don’t bother trying. Yes, you could marry a Cornelia or an Aemilia. But everyone would know you simply bought the girl. The advantage of marrying a Julia lies in the fact that the Julius Caesars have never sold their daughters to rich nobodies desirous of carving public careers for themselves and a noble heritage for their progeny. The very fact that you have been permitted to marry a Julia will inform the world that you are deserving of every political honor, and that the slurs upon your name are pure malice. The Julius Caesars have always been above selling their daughters. It is a universally known fact.” Caesar paused to think for a moment, then added, “Mind you, I shall strongly advise both my sons to make capital out of our quirkiness and marry their daughters to rich nobodies as fast as they can!”
Marius leaned back with a second full cup. “Gaius Julius, just why are you offering me this chance?” he asked.
Caesar frowned. “There are two reasons,” he said. “The first is perhaps not very sensible, but out of it came my decision to reverse our traditional family reluctance to make financial capital out of our children. You see, when I noticed you yesterday at the inauguration, I was visited with a premonition. Now I am not a man who is premonition-prone, you must understand. But I swear by all the gods, Gaius Marius, that suddenly I knew that I was looking at a man who would—given the chance!—carry Rome on his back out of terrible danger. And I knew too that if you were not given the chance, Rome would cease to be.” He shrugged, shivered. “Well, there’s a strong streak of superstition in every Roman, and in the really old families, it’s very highly developed. I believed what I felt. After the passage of a day, I still believe what I felt. And wouldn’t it be lovely, I thought to myself, if I, a humble backbencher senator, gave Rome the man Rome is going to need so desperately?”
“I feel it too,” said Marius abruptly. “I have ever since I went to Numantia.”
“So there you are! Two of us.”
“And your second reason, Gaius Julius?”
Caesar sighed. “I have reached an age where I must face the fact that I have not so far managed to provide for my children as a father should. Love they have had. Material comfort they have had, without the burden of too much material comfort. Education they have had. But this house, plus five hundred iugera of land in the Alban Hills, is all I own.” He sat up, crossed his legs, leaned forward again. “I have four children. That’s two too many, as you well know. Two sons, two daughters. What I own will not ensure the public careers of my sons, even as backbenchers like their father. If I divide what I have between my two boys, neither will qualify for the senatorial census. If I leave what I have to my elder boy, Sextus, he will survive after my fashion. But my younger boy, Gaius, will be so penurious he will not even qualify for the knights’ census. In effect, I will make a Lucius Cornelius Sulla out of him—do you know Lucius Cornelius Sulla?” asked Caesar.
“No,” said Marius.
“His stepmother is my next-door neighbor, a ghastly woman of low birth and no sense, but very rich. However, she has blood kin of her own who will inherit her money, a nephew, I believe. How do I know so much about her circumstances? The penalty of being a neighbor who also happens to be a senator. She badgered me to draw up her will for her, and never stopped talking. Her stepson, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, lives with her, according to her because he literally has nowhere else to go. Imagine it—a patrician Cornelius old enough to be in the Senate right now, but with absolutely no hope of ever entering the Senate. He is destitute! His branch of the family is long decayed, and his father had virtually nothing; to compound Lucius Cornelius’s woes, the father turned to wine, and whatever might have been left was drunk up years ago. It was the father married my next-door neighbor, who has kept the son under her roof since her husband died, but is not prepared to do anything else for him. You, Gaius Marius, have been infinitely luckier than Lucius Cornelius Sulla, for at least your family was affluent enough to give you the property and income of a senator when the opportunity came for you to enter the Senate. Your New Man status could not keep you out of the Senate when the opportunity came, where failure to meet the mean
s test most certainly would have. Lucius Cornelius Sulla’s birth is impeccable on both sides. But his penuriousness has effectively excluded him from his rightful position in the scheme of things. And I find I care too much for the welfare of my younger son to reduce him or his children or his children’s children to the circumstances of a Lucius Cornelius Sulla,” said Caesar with some passion.
“Birth is an accident!” said Marius with equal passion. “Why should it have the power to dictate the course of a life?”
“Why should money?” Caesar countered. “Come now, Gaius Marius, admit that it is the way of all men in all lands to value birth and money. Roman society I find more flexible than most, as a matter of fact—compared to the Kingdom of the Parthians, for example, Rome is as ideal as Plato’s hypothetical Republic! In Rome, there have actually been cases where men managed to rise from nothing. Not, mind you, that I have ever personally admired any of them who have done so,” said Caesar reflectively. “The struggle seems to ruin them as men.”
“Then perhaps it’s better that Lucius Cornelius Sulla stay right where he is,” said Marius.
“Certainly not!” said Caesar firmly. “I admit that your being a New Man has inflicted an unkind and unjust fate upon you, Gaius Marius, but I am sufficiently a man of my class to deplore the fate of Lucius Cornelius Sulla!” He assumed an expression of businesslike decision. “However, what concerns me at the moment is the fate of my children. My daughters, Gaius Marius, are dowerless! I cannot even scrape together a pittance for them, because to do so would impoverish my sons. That means my daughters have absolutely no chance of marrying men of their own class. I apologize, Gaius Marius, if in saying that you deem I have insulted you. But I don’t mean men like yourself, I mean”— he waved his hands about—”let me say that again. I mean I will have to marry my daughters to men I don’t like, don’t admire, have nothing in common with. I wouldn’t marry them to men of their own class whom I didn’t like, either! A decent, honorable, likable man is my desire. But I won’t have the opportunity to discover him. The ones who will apply to me for my daughters’ hands will be presumptuous ingrates I’d rather show the toe of my boot than the palm of my hand. It’s similar to the fate of a rich widow; decent men will have none of her for fear of being deemed a fortune hunter, so that the only ones she is left to choose from are fortune hunters.”
Caesar slid off the couch and sat on its back edge with his feet dangling. “Would you mind, Gaius Marius, if we took a stroll in the garden? It’s cold out there, I know, but I can give you a warm wrap. It’s been a long evening, and not an easy one for me. I’m beginning to feel my bones seizing up.”
Without a word Marius levered himself off the couch, took Caesar’s shoes and slipped them onto Caesar’s feet, laced them with the swift efficiency of an organized mind. Then he did the same for himself, and stood up, his hand beneath Caesar’s elbow.
“That’s why I like you so much,” said Caesar. “No nonsense, no pretenses.”
It was a small peristyle, yet it had a certain charm few city garden-courtyards possessed. Despite the season, aromatic herbs still thrived and gave off delicious scents, and the plantings were mostly perennial evergreens. Small country habits died hard in the Julius Caesars, Marius noticed with a thrill of gratified warmth; along the edges of the eaves, where they would catch the sun yet not get wet, there hung hundreds of little bunches of fleabane drying, just as at his father’s house in Arpinum. By the end of January they would be tucked into every clothes chest and corner from one end of the domus to the other, to discourage fleas, silverfish, vermin of all kinds. Fleabane was cut at the winter solstice for drying; Marius hadn’t thought there was a household in Rome knew of it.
Because there had been a guest to dinner, the chandeliers which hung from the ceiling of the colonnade surrounding the peristyle all burned faintly, and the little bronze lamps which lit the paths of the garden glowed a delicate amber through the wafer-thin marble of their round sides. The rain had ceased, but fat drops of water coated every shrub and bush, and the air was vaporous, chill.
Neither man noticed. Heads together (they were both tall, so it was comfortable to lean their heads together), they paced down the walkways, and finally stood by the little pool and fountain at the middle of the garden, its quartet of stone dryads holding torches aloft. It being winter, the pool was empty and the fountain turned off.
This, thought Gaius Marius (whose pool and fountain were full of water all year round thanks to a system of heating), is real. None of my tritons and dolphins and gushing waterfalls move me as this little old relic does.
“Are you interested in marrying one of my daughters?” asked Caesar, not anxiously, yet conveying anxiety.
“Yes, Gaius Julius, I am,” said Marius with decision.
“Will it grieve you to divorce your wife?”
“Not in the least.” Marius cleared his throat. “What do you require of me, Gaius Julius, in return for the gift of a bride and your name?”
“A great deal, as a matter of fact,” said Caesar. “Since you will be admitted into the family in the guise of a second father rather than as a son-in-law—a privilege of age!—I will expect you to dower my other daughter and contribute to the welfare of both my sons. In the case of the unlucky daughter and my younger son, money and property are necessarily a large part of it. But you must be willing to throw your weight behind both my boys when they enter the Senate and begin their journey toward the consulship. I want both my boys to be consuls, you see. My son Sextus is one year older than the elder of the two boys my brother, Sextus, kept for himself, so my son Sextus will be the first of this generation’s Julius Caesars to be of age to seek the consulship. I want him consul in his proper year, twelve years after entering the Senate, forty-two after his birth. He will be the first Julian consul in four hundred years. I want that distinction! Otherwise, my brother Sextus’s son Lucius will become the first Julian consul, in the following year.”
Pausing to peer at Marius’s dimly lit face, Caesar put out a reassuring hand. “Oh, there was never bad feeling between my brother and me while he was alive, nor is there now between me and mine, and his two sons. But a man should be consul in his proper year. It looks best.”
“Your brother, Sextus, adopted his oldest boy out, didn’t he?” asked Marius, striving to recollect what a Roman of the Romans would have known without stopping to think.
“Yes, a very long time ago. His name was Sextus too, it’s the name we normally give to our eldest sons.”
“Of course! Quintus Lutatius Catulus! I would have remembered if he used Caesar as part of his name, but he doesn’t, does he? He’ll surely be the first Caesar to attain the consulship, he’s a lot older than any of the others.”
“No,” said Caesar, shaking his head emphatically. “He’s not a Caesar anymore, he’s a Lutatius Catulus.”
“I gather that old Catulus paid well for his adopted son,” said Marius. “There seems to be plenty of money in your late brother’s family, anyway.”
“Yes, he paid very dearly. As you will for your new wife, Gaius Marius.”
“Julia. I’ll take Julia,” said Marius.
“Not the little one?” asked Caesar, sounding surprised. “Well, I admit I’m glad, for no other reason than I consider no girl should be married before she turns eighteen, and Julilla is still a year and a half off that. I think you’ve chosen rightly, as a matter of fact. Yet—I’ve always thought Julilla the more attractive and interesting of the two.”
“You would, you’re her father,” said Marius, grinning. “No, Gaius Julius, your younger daughter doesn’t tempt me in the least. If she isn’t wild about the fellow she marries, I think she’ll lead him a merry dance. I’m too old for girlish caprices. Where Julia seems to me to have sense as good as her looks. I liked everything about her.”
“She’ll make an excellent consul’s wife.”
“Do you honestly think I’ll succeed in being consul?”
Caesa
r nodded. “Oh, certainly! But not straightaway. Marry Julia first, then let things—and people—settle down. Try to find yourself a decent war for a couple of years—it will help enormously if you’ve got a recent military success to your credit. Offer your services to someone as a senior legate. Then seek the consulship two or three years hence.”
“But I’ll be fifty years old,” said Marius dismally. “They don’t like electing men so far past the normal age.”
“You’re already too old, so what matter another two or three years? They’ll stand you in good stead if you use them well. And you don’t look your age, Gaius Marius, an important factor. If you were visibly running to seed, it would be quite different. Instead, you’re the picture of health and vigor—and you’re a big man in size, which always impresses the Centuriate electors. In fact, New Man or not, if you hadn’t incurred the enmity of the Caecilius Metelluses, you would have been a strong contender for the consulship three years ago, in your proper time for it. Were you an insignificant-looking little chap with a skinny right arm, even a Julia mightn’t help. As it is, you’ll be consul, never fear.”
“What exactly do you want me to do for your sons?”
“In terms of property?”
“Yes,” said Marius, forgetting his Chian finery and sitting down on a bench of white unpolished marble. Since he sat there for some time and the bench was very wet, when he rose he left a mottled, oddly natural-looking pinkish-purple stain all over it. The purple dye from his outfit percolated into the porous stone and fixed itself, so that the bench became—in the fullness of time, a generation or two down the years—one of the most admired and prized pieces of furniture another Gaius Julius Caesar was to bring into the Domus Publicus of the Pontifex Maximus. To the Gaius Julius Caesar who concluded a marriage bargain with Gaius Marius, however, the bench was an omen; a wonderful, wonderful omen. When the slave came to tell him of the miracle in the morning and he saw it for himself (the slave was awed rather than horrified—everyone knew the regal significance of the color purple), he heaved a sigh of perfect satisfaction. For the purple bench told him that in striking this marriage bargain, he was advancing his family to the purple of highest office. And it became fused in his mind with that strange premonition; yes, Gaius Marius had a place in Rome’s fate that Rome as yet did not dream of. Caesar removed the bench from the garden and put it in his atrium, but he never told a soul how exactly it had become overnight a richly mottled, delicately veined purple and pink. An omen!
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