“It is. But Crassus Orator—who it seems didn’t get on with his father—adores to be surrounded by every conceivable luxury. And Quintus Granius the auctioneer needs a political favor from Crassus Orator now that he’s a tribune of the plebs, so Quintus Granius the auctioneer threw a party tonight in honor of Crassus Orator. The theme,” said Sulla, a little expression creeping into his voice, “was ‘Let’s ignore the lex Licinia sumptuaria!’”
“Was that why you were invited?” asked Metrobius.
“I was invited because it appears in the highest circles— the circles of Crassus Orator, that is, even if not of Quintus Granius the auctioneer—I am regarded as a fascinating fellow—life as low as birth was high. I think they thought I’d strip off all my clothes and sing a few dirty ditties while I humped the daylights out of Colubra.”
“Colubra?”
“Colubra.”
Metrobius whistled. “You are moving in exalted circles! I hear she charges a silver talent for irrumatio.”
“She might, but she offered it to me for nothing,” said Sulla, grinning. “I declined.”
Metrobius shivered. “Oh, Lucius Cornelius, don’t go making enemies now that you’re in your rightful world! Women like Colubra wield enormous power.”
An expression of distaste settled upon Sulla’s face. “Tchah! I piss on them!”
“They’d probably like that,” said Metrobius thoughtfully.
It did the trick; Sulla laughed, and settled down to tell his story more happily.
“There were a few wives there—the more adventurous kind, with husbands pecked almost to death—two Claudias, and a lady in a mask who insisted on being called Aspasia, but who I know very well is Crassus Orator’s cousin Licinia—you remember, I used to sleep with her occasionally?”
“I remember,” said Metrobius a little grimly.
“The place absolutely dripped gold and Tyrian purple,” Sulla went on. “Even the dishrags were Tyrian purple oversewn with gold! You should have seen the dining steward waiting until his master wasn’t looking, and then whipping out an ordinary dishrag to mop up someone’s spilled Chian wine—the gold-and-purple rags were useless, of course.”
“You hated it,” said Metrobius.
“I hated it,” said Sulla, sighed, and resumed his story. “The couches were encrusted with pearls. They really were! And the guests fiddled and plucked until they managed to denude the couches of their pearls, popped them into a corner of the gold-and-purple napkins, knotted the corner up carefully—and there wasn’t one among the men at least who couldn’t have bought what he stole without noticing the expense.”
“Except you,” said Metrobius softly, and pushed the hair off Sulla’s white brow. “You didn’t take any pearls.”
“I’d sooner have died,” said Sulla. He shrugged. “They were only little river blisters, anyway.”
Metrobius chuckled. “Don’t spoil it! I like it when you’re insufferably proud and noble.”
Smiling, Sulla kissed him. “That bad, am I?”
“That bad. What was the food like?”
“Catered. Well, not even Granius’s kitchens could have turned out enough food for sixty—ooops, fifty-nine!—of the worst gluttons I’ve ever seen. Every hen egg was a tenth egg, most of them double-yolked. There were swan eggs, goose eggs, duck eggs, seabird eggs, and even some eggs with gilded shells. Stuffed udders of nursing sows—fowls fattened on honey cakes soaked in vintage Falernian wine— snails specially imported from Liguria—oysters driven up from Baiae in a fast gig—the air was so redolent with the most expensive peppers that I had a sneezing fit.”
He needed to talk very badly, Metrobius realized; what a strange world Sulla’s must be now. Not at all as he had imagined it, though how exactly he had imagined it before it happened was something Metrobius did not know. For Sulla was not a talker, never had been a talker. Until tonight. Out of nowhere! The sight of that beloved face was a sight Metrobius had reconciled himself never to see again, save at a distance. Yet there on the doorstep he’d stood, looking—ghastly. And needing love. Needing to talk. Sulla! How lonely he must be, indeed.
“What else was there?” Metrobius prompted, anxious to keep him talking.
Up went one red-gold brow, its darkening of stibium long gone. “The best was yet to come, as it turned out. They bore it in shoulder-high on a Tyrian purple cushion in a gem-studded golden dish, a huge licker-fish of the Tiber with the same look on its face as a flogged mastiff. Round and round the room they paraded it, with more ceremony than the twelve gods are accorded at a lectisternium. A fish!”
Metrobius knitted his brows. “What sort of fish was it?”
Sulla pulled his head back to stare into Metrobius’s face. “You know! A licker-fish.”
“If I do, I don’t remember.”
Sulla considered, relaxed. “I daresay you mightn’t, at that. Licker-fish are a far cry from a comics’ feast. Let me just say, young Metrobius, that every gastronomic fool in Rome’s upper stratum passes into a swoon of ecstasy at the very thought of a licker-fish of the Tiber. Yet—there they cruise between the Wooden Bridge and the Pons Aemilius, laving their scaly sides in the outflow from the sewers, and so full from eating Rome’s shit that they can’t even be bothered nosing a bait. They smell of shit and they taste of shit. Eat them, and, in my opinion, you’re eating shit. But Quintus Granius and Crassus Orator raved and drooled as if a licker-fish of the Tiber was a compound of nectar and ambrosia instead of a shit-eating drone of a freshwater bass!”
Metrobius couldn’t help himself; he gagged.
“Well said!” cried Sulla, and began to laugh. “Oh, if you could only have seen them, all those puffed-up fools! Calling themselves Rome’s best and finest, while Rome’s shit dribbled down their chins—” He stopped, sucked in a hissing breath. “I couldn’t take it another day. Another hour.” He stopped again. “I’m drunk. It was that awful Saturnalia.”
“Awful Saturnalia?”
“Boring—awful—it doesn’t matter. A different upper stratum than Crassus Orator’s party crowd, Metrobius, but just as dreadful. Boring. Boring, boring, boring!” He shrugged. “Never mind. Next year I’ll be in Numidia, with something to sink my teeth into. I can’t wait! Rome without you––without my old friends—I can’t bear it.” A shiver rolled visibly down him. “I’m drunk, Metrobius. I shouldn’t be here. But oh, if you knew how good it is to be here!”
“I only know how good it is to have you here,” said Metrobius loudly.
“Your voice is breaking,” said Sulla, surprised.
“And not before time. I’m seventeen, Lucius Cornelius. Luckily I’m small for my age, and Scylax has trained me to keep my voice high. But sometimes these days I forget. It’s harder to control. I’ll be shaving soon.”
“Seventeen!”
Metrobius slid off Sulla’s lap and stood looking down at him gravely, then held out one hand. “Come! Stay with me a little while longer. You can go home before it’s light.’’
Reluctantly Sulla got up. “I’ll stay,” he said, “this time. But I won’t be back.”
“I know,” said Metrobius, and lifted his visitor’s arm until it lay across his shoulders. “Next year you’ll be in Numidia, and you’ll be happy.”
THE
FOURTH YEAR
107 B.C.
IN THE CONSULSHIP OF
LUCIUS CASSIUS LONGINUS
AND
GAIUS MARIUS (I)
1
No consulship ever mattered to its owner the Marius’s first consulship mattered to him. He proceeded to his inauguration on New Year’s Day secure in the knowledge that his night watch for omens had been unimpeachable, and that his white bull had gorged itself on drugged fodder. Solemn and aloof, Marius stood looking every inch the consul, splendidly tall, far more distinguished than any of those around him in the crisp fine early morning air; the senior consul, Lucius Cassius Longinus, was short and stocky, didn’t look imposing in a toga, and was completely overshadowed by his
junior colleague.
And at long last Lucius Cornelius Sulla walked as a senator, the broad purple stripe on the right shoulder of his tunic, attending his consul, Marius, in the role of quaestor.
Though he didn’t have the fasces for the month of January, those crimson-tied bundles of rods being the property of the senior consul, Cassius, until the Kalends of February, Marius nevertheless summoned the Senate for a meeting the following day.
“At the moment,” he said to the assembled senators, almost all of whom elected to attend, for they didn’t trust Marius, “Rome is being called upon to fight wars on at least three fronts, and that excludes Spain. We need troops to combat King Jugurtha, the Scordisci in Macedonia, and the Germans in Gaul. However, in the fifteen years since the death of Gaius Gracchus we have lost sixty thousand Roman soldiers, dead on various fields of battle. Thousands more have been rendered unfit for further military service. I repeat the length of the period, Conscript Fathers of the Senate—fifteen years. Not even half a generation in length.”
The House was very silent; among those who sat there was Marcus Junius Silanus, who had lost more than a third of that total less than two years earlier, and was still fending off treason charges. No one had ever dared before to say the dreaded total number in the House, yet all present knew very well that Marius’s figures erred on the side of conservatism. Numbed by the sound of the figures pronounced in Marius’s upcountry Latin, the senators listened.
“We cannot fill the levies,” Marius went on, “for one cogent reason. We no longer have enough men. The shortage of Roman citizen and Latin Rights men is frightening, but the shortage of Italian men is worse. Even conscripting in every district south of the Arnus, we stand no hope of recruiting the troops we need to field this year. I would presume the African army, six legions strong, trained and equipped, will return to Italy with Quintus Caecilius Metellus, and be used by my esteemed colleague Lucius Cassius in Further Gaul of the Tolosates. The Macedonian legions are also properly equipped and of veteran status, and will, I am sure, continue to do well under Marcus Minucius and his young brother.”
Marius paused to draw breath; the House continued to listen. “But there remains the problem of a new African army. Quintus Caecilius Metellus has had six full-strength legions at his disposal. I anticipate being able to reduce that total to four legions if I have to. However, Rome doesn’t have four legions in reserve! Rome doesn’t even have one legion in reserve! To refresh your memories, I will give you the precise numbers a four-legion army contains.”
There was no need for a Gaius Marius to refer to notes; he simply stood there on the consuls’ dais slightly in front of his ivory curule chair and gave the figures out of his memory. “At full strength: 5,120 infantrymen per legion, plus 1,280 noncombatant freemen and another 1,000 non-combatant slaves per legion. Then we have the cavalry: a force of 2,000 mounted troops, with a further 2,000 non-combatant freemen and slaves to support the horse. I am therefore faced with the task of finding 20,480 infantrymen, 5,120 noncombatant freemen, 4,000 noncombatant slaves, 2,000 cavalry troopers, and 2,000 noncombatant cavalry support men.”
His eyes traveled the House. “Now the noncombatant forces have never been difficult to recruit, and will not be difficult to recruit, I predict—there is no property qualification upon the noncombatant, who can be as poor as a foothills sharecropper. Nor will the cavalry be difficult, as it is many generations since Rome fielded mounted troopers of Roman or Italian origin. We will as always find the men we want in places like Macedonia, Thrace, Liguria, and Gaul-across-the-Alps, and they bring their own noncombatants with them, as well as their horses.”
He paused for a longer space of time, noting certain men: Scaurus and the unsuccessful consular candidate Catulus Caesar, Metellus Dalmaticus Pontifex Maximus, Gaius Memmius, Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus, Scipio Nasica, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus. Whichever way these men jumped, the senatorial sheep would follow.
“Ours is a frugal state, Conscript Fathers. When we threw out the kings, we abrogated the concept of fielding an army largely paid for by the State. For that reason, we limited armed service to those with sufficient property to buy their own arms, armor, and other equipment, and that requirement was for all soldiers—Roman, Latin, Italian, no difference. A man of property has property to defend. The survival of the State and of his property matter to him. He is willing to put his heart into fighting. For that reason, we have been reluctant to assume an overseas empire, and have tried time and time again to avoid owning provinces.
“But after the defeat of Perseus, we failed in our laudable attempt to introduce self-government into Macedonia because the Macedonians could not understand any system save autocracy. So we had to take Macedonia over as a province of Rome because we couldn’t afford to have barbarian tribes invading the west coast of Macedonia, so close to our own Italy’s east coast. The defeat of Carthage forced us to administer Carthage’s empire in Spain, or risk some other nation’s taking possession. We gave the bulk of African Carthage to the kings of Numidia and kept only a small province around Carthage itself in the name of Rome, to guard against any Punic revival—and yet, look at what has happened because we gave so much away to the kings of Numidia! Now we find ourselves obliged to take over Africa in order to protect our own small province and crush the blatantly expansionist policies of one man, Jugurtha. For all it takes, Conscript Fathers, is one man, and we are undone! King Attalus willed us Asia when he died, and we are still trying to avoid our provincial responsibilities there! Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus opened up the whole coast of Gaul between Liguria and Nearer Spain so that we had a safe, properly Roman corridor between Italy and Spain for our armies—but out of that, we found ourselves obliged to create yet another province.”
He cleared his throat; such a silence! “Our soldiers now fight their campaigns outside of Italy. They are away for long periods, their farms and homes are neglected, their wives unfaithful, their children unsired. With the result that we see fewer and fewer volunteers, are forced increasingly to call up men in the levies. No man who farms the land or conducts a business wants to be away from it for five or six or even seven years! And when he is discharged, he is liable to be called up again the moment the volunteers don’t volunteer.’’
The deep voice grew somber. “But more than anything else, so many of these men have died during the past fifteen years! And they have not replaced themselves. The whole of Italy is empty of men with the necessary property qualifications to form a Roman army in the traditional mould.”
The voice changed again, was raised to echo round the naked rafters of the ancient hall, built during the time of King Tullus Hostilius. “Well, ever since the time of the second war against Carthage, the recruiting officers have had to wink an eye at the property qualifications. And after the loss of the younger Carbo’s army six years ago, we have even admitted to the ranks men who couldn’t afford to buy their own armor, let alone equip themselves in other ways. But it has been covert, unapproved, and always a last resort.
“Those days are over, Conscript Fathers. I, Gaius Marius, consul of the Senate and People of Rome, am hereby serving notice upon the members of this House that I intend to recruit my soldiers, not conscript them—I want willing soldiers, not men who would rather be at home! And where am I going to find some twenty thousand volunteers, you ask? Why, the answer’s simple! I am going to seek them among the Head Count, the absolute bottom of the social strata, too poor to be admitted to one of the Five Classes— I am going to seek my volunteers among those who have no money, no property, and very often no steady job—I am going to seek my volunteers among those who never before have been offered the opportunity to fight for their country, to fight for Rome!”
A swelling murmur arose, and increased, and increased, until the whole House was thundering: “No! No! No!”
Showing no anger, Marius waited patiently, even as the anger of others beat around him tangibly in shaking fists and purpling faces, the s
craping of more than two hundred folding stools as the swishing togas of men leaping to their feet pushed them across the old stone floor, buffed by the passage of centuries of feet.
Finally the noise died down; roused to ire though they were, they knew they hadn’t yet heard it all, and curiosity was a powerful force, even in the irate.
“You can scream and yell and howl until vinegar turns into wine!” shouted Marius when he could make himself heard. “But I am serving notice upon you here and now that this is what I am going to do! And I don’t need your permission to do it, either! There’s no law on the tablets says I cannot do it—but within a matter of days there will be a law on the tablets says I can do it! A law which says that any lawfully elected senior magistrate in need of an army may seek it among the capite censi—the Head Count—the proletarii. For I, senators, am taking my case to the People!”
“Never!” cried Dalmaticus.
“Over my dead body!” cried Scipio Nasica.
“No! No! No!” cried the whole House, thundering.
“Wait!” cried the lone voice of Scaurus. “Wait, wait! Let me refute him!”
But no one heard. The Curia Hostilia, home of the Senate since the foundation of the Republic, shuddered to its very foundations from the noise of infuriated senators.
“Come on!” said Marius, and swept out of the House, followed by his quaestor, Sulla, and his tribune of the plebs, Titus Manlius Mancinus.
The Forum crowds had gathered at the first rumblings of the storm, and found the well of the Comitia already packed with Marius’s supporters. Down the steps of the Curia and across to the rostra along the back of the Comitia marched the consul Marius and the tribune of the plebs Mancinus; the quaestor Sulla, a patrician, remained on the Senate House steps.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” roared Mancinus. “The Assembly of the Plebs is called into session! I declare a contio, a preliminary discussion!”
Forth to the speaker’s platform at the front of the rostra stepped Gaius Marius, and turned so that he partially faced the Comitia and partially the open space of the lower Forum; those on the steps of the Senate House mostly saw his back, and when all the senators save the few patricians began to move down the tiers of the Comitia to where from its floor they could look straight at Marius and harass him, the ranks of his clients and supporters who had been summoned to the Comitia in readiness suddenly blocked their onward passage, and would not let them through. There were scuffles and punches, teeth were bared and tempers flared, but the Marian lines held. Only the nine other tribunes of the plebs were allowed to proceed to the rostra, where they stood along its back with stern faces and silently debated whether it was going to be possible to interpose a veto and live.
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