He drew a long breath everyone could hear; and hear the sadness in its quaver halfway through. “And though my illness is past, I bear its scars. Before I call this House to order and we get down to business which seems sorely in need of our attention, I wish to make a statement. I will not be seeking re-election as consul—for two reasons. The first, that the emergency which faced the State and resulted in my being allowed the unprecedented honor of so many consecutive consulships is now conclusively, finally, positively over. The second, that I do not consider my health would enable me to perform my duties properly. The responsibility I must bear for the present chaos here in Rome is manifest. If I had been here in Rome, the senior consul’s presence would have helped. That is why there is a senior consul. I do not accuse Lucius Valerius or Marcus Aemilius or any other official of this body. The senior consul must lead. I have not been able to lead. And that has taught me that I cannot seek re-election. Let the office of senior consul pass to a man in good health.”
No one replied. No one moved. If his twisted face had indicated this was in the wind, the degree of stunned shock every last one of them now felt was proof of the ascendancy he had gained over them during the past five years. A Senate without Gaius Marius in the consul’s chair? Impossible! Even Scaurus Princeps Senatus and Catulus Caesar sat shocked.
Then came a voice from the back tier behind Scaurus. “Guh-guh-good!” said Metellus Piglet. “Now my fuh-fuh-father can cuh-cuh-cuh-come home.”
“I thank you for the compliment, young Metellus,” Marius said, looking directly up at him. “You infer that it is only I who keeps your father in his exile on Rhodes. But such is not the case, you know. It is the law of the land keeps Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus in exile. And I strictly charge each and every member of this august body to remember that! There will be no decrees or plebiscites or laws upset because I am not consul!”
“Young fool!” muttered Scaurus to Catulus Caesar. “If he hadn’t said that, we could quietly have brought Quintus Caecilius back early next year. Now he won’t be allowed to come. I really think it’s time young Metellus was presented with an extra name.”
“What?” asked Catulus Caesar.
“Puh-Puh-Puh-Pius!” said Scaurus savagely. “Metellus Pius the pious son, ever striving to bring his tata home! And stuh-stuh-stuffing it up!”
It was extraordinary to see how quickly the House got down to business now that Gaius Marius was in the consul’s chair, extraordinary too to feel a sense of wellbeing permeating the members of the House, as if suddenly the crowds outside couldn’t matter the way they had until Gaius Marius reappeared.
Informed of the change in venue for the presentation of the curule candidates, Marius simply nodded consent, then curtly ordered Saturninus to call the Plebeian Assembly together and elect some magistrates; until this was out of the way, no other magistrates could be elected.
After which, Marius turned to face Gaius Servilius Glaucia, sitting in the urban praetor’s chair just behind and to his left. “I hear a rumor, Gaius Servilius,” he said to Glaucia, “that you intend to seek the consulship on the grounds of invalidities you have allegedly found in the lex Villia. Please do not. The lex Villia annalis unequivocally says that a man must wait two years between the end of his praetorship and the beginning of any consulship.”
“Look at who’s talking!” gasped Glaucia, staggered to find opposition in the one senatorial corner where he had thought to find support. “How can you stand there so brazenly, Gaius Marius, accusing me of thinking of breaking the lex Villia when you’ve broken it in fact for the last five years in a row? If the lex Villia is valid, then it unequivocally states that no man who has been consul may seek a second consulship until ten years have elapsed!”
“I did not seek the consulship beyond that once, Gaius Servilius,” said Marius levelly. “It was bestowed upon me—and three times in absentia!—because of the Germans. When a state of emergency exists, all sorts of customs—even laws!—come tumbling down. But when the danger is finally over, whatever extraordinary measures were taken must cease.”
“Ha ha ha!” said Metellus Piglet from the back row, this being an interjection in perfect accord with his speech impediment.
“Peace has come, Conscript Fathers,” said Marius as if no one had spoken, “therefore we return to normal business and normal government. Gaius Servilius, the law forbids you to stand for the consulship. And as the presiding officer of the elections, I will not allow your candidacy. Please take this as fair warning. Give up the notion gracefully, for it does not become you. Rome needs lawmakers of your undeniable talent. For you cannot make the laws if you break the laws.”
“I told you so!” said Saturninus audibly.
“He can’t stop me, and nor can anyone else,” said Glaucia, loudly enough for the whole House to hear him.
“He’ll stop you,” said Saturninus.
“As for you, Lucius Appuleius,” Marius said, turning now to look at the tribunes’ bench, “I hear a rumor that you intend to seek a third term as a tribune of the plebs. Now that is not against the law. Therefore I cannot stop you. But I can ask you to give up the notion. Do not give our meaning of the word ‘demagogue’ a new interpretation. What you have been doing during the past few months is not customary political practice for a member of the Senate of Rome. With our immense body of laws and our formidable talent for making the cogs and gears of government work in the interests of Rome as we know it, there is no necessity to exploit the political gullibility of the lowly. They are innocents who should not be corrupted. It is our duty to look after them, not to use them to further our own political ends.”
“Are you finished?” asked Saturninus.
“Quite finished, Lucius Appuleius.” And the way Marius said it, it had many meanings.
*
So that was over and done with, he thought as he walked home with the crafty new gait he had developed to disguise a tiny tendency to foot-drop on the left side. How odd and how awful those months in Cumae had been, when he had hidden away and seen as few people as possible because he couldn’t bear the horror, the pity, the gloating satisfaction. Most unbearable of all were those who loved him enough to grieve, like Publius Rutilius. Sweet and gentle Julia had turned into a positive tyrant, and flatly forbidden anyone, even Publius Rutilius, to say one word about politics or public business. He hadn’t known of the grain crisis, he hadn’t known of Saturninus’s wooing of the lowly; his life had constricted to an austere regimen of diet, exercise, and reading the Classics. Instead of a nice bit of bacon with fried bread, he ate baked watermelon because Julia had heard it purged the kidneys, both the bladders, and the blood of stones; instead of walking to the Curia Hostilia, he hiked to Baiae and Misenum; instead of reading senatorial minutes and provincial dispatches, he plodded through Isocrates and Herodotus and Thucydides, and ended in believing none of them, for they didn’t read like men who acted, only like men who read.
But it worked. Slowly, slowly, he got better. Yet never again would he be whole, never again would the left side of his mouth go up, never again would he be able to disguise the fact that he was weary. The traitor within the gates of his body had branded him for all the world to see. It was this realization which finally prompted his rebellion; and Julia, who had been amazed that he remained docile for so long, gave in at once. So he sent for Publius Rutilius, and returned to Rome to pick up what pieces he could.
Of course he knew Saturninus would not stand aside, yet felt obliged to give him the warning; as for Glaucia, his election would never be allowed, so that was no worry. At least the elections would go ahead now, with the tribunes of the plebs set for the day before the Nones and the quaestors on the Nones, the day they were supposed to enter office. These were the disturbing elections, for they had to be held in the Comitia of the Forum Romanum, where the crowd milled every day, and shouted obscenities, and pelted the togate with filth, and shook their fists, and listened in blind adoration to Saturninus.
Not that they hissed or pelted Gaius Marius, who walked through their midst on his way home from that memorable meeting feeling nothing but the warmth of their love. No one lower than the Second Class would ever look unkindly upon Gaius Marius; like the Brothers Gracchi, he was a hero. There were those who looked upon his face, and wept to see it ravaged; there were those who had never set eyes on him in the flesh before, and thought his face had always been like that, and admired him all the more; but none tried to touch him, all stepped back to make a little lane for him, and he walked proudly yet humbly through them reaching out to them with heart and mind. A wordless communion. And Saturninus, watching from the rostra, wondered.
“The crowd is an awesome phenomenon, isn’t it?” Sulla asked Marius over dinner that evening, in the company of Publius Rutilius Rufus and Julia.
“A sign of the times,” said Rutilius.
“A sign that we’ve failed them,” said Marius, frowning. “Rome needs a rest. Ever since Gaius Gracchus we’ve been in some kind of serious trouble—Jugurtha—the Germans— the Scordisci—Italian discontent—slave uprisings—pirates—grain shortages—the list is endless. We need a respite, a bit of time to look after Rome rather than ourselves. Hopefully, we’ll get it. When the grain supply improves, at any rate.”
“I have a message from Aurelia,” said Sulla.
Marius, Julia, and Rutilius Rufus all turned to look at him curiously.
“Do you see her, Lucius Cornelius?” Rutilius Rufus the watchful uncle demanded.
“Don’t get clucky, Publius Rutilius, there’s no need!
Yes, I see her from time to time. It takes a native to sympathize, which is why I go. She’s stuck down there in the Subura, and it’s my world too,” he said, unruffled. “I still have friends there, so Aurelia’s on my way, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh dear, I should have asked her to dinner!” said Julia, distressed at her oversight. “Somehow she tends to be forgotten.”
“She understands,” said Sulla. “Don’t mistake me, she loves her world. But she likes to keep a little abreast of what’s happening in the Forum, and that’s my job. You’re her uncle, Publius Rutilius, you tend to want to keep the trouble from her. Where I tell her everything. She’s amazingly intelligent.”
“What’s the message?” asked Marius, sipping water.
“It comes from her friend Lucius Decumius, the odd little fellow who runs the crossroads college in her insula, and it goes something like this—if you think there have been crowds in the Forum, you haven’t seen anything yet. On the day of the tribunician elections, the sea of faces will become an ocean.”
*
Lucius Decumius was right. At sunrise Gaius Marius and Lucius Cornelius Sulla walked up onto the Arx of the Capitol and stood leaning on the low wall barring the top of the Lautumiae cliff to take in the sight of the whole Forum Romanum spread below. As far as they could see was that ocean of people, densely packed from the Clivus Capitolinus to the Velia. It was orderly, somber, shot with menace, breathtaking.
“Why?” asked Marius.
“According to Lucius Decumius, they’re here to make their presence felt. The Comitia will be in session to elect the new tribunes of the plebs, and they’ve heard that Saturninus is going to stand, and they think he’s their best hope for full bellies. The famine has only just begun, Gaius Marius. And they don’t want a famine,” said Sulla, voice even.
“But they can’t influence the outcome of a tribal election, any more than they can elections in the Centuries! Almost all of them will belong to the four city tribes.”
“True. And there won’t be many voters from the thirty-one rural tribes apart from those who live in Rome,” said Sulla. “There’s no holiday atmosphere today to tempt the rural voters. So a handful of what’s below will actually vote. They know that. They’re not here to vote. They’re just here to make us aware they’re here.”
“Saturninus’s idea?” asked Marius.
“No. His crowd is the one you saw on the Kalends, and every day since. The shitters and pissers, I call them. Just rabble. Denizens of crossroads colleges, ex-gladiators, thieves and malcontents, gullible shopkeepers bleeding from the lack of money, freedmen bored with groveling to their ex-masters, and many who think there might be a denarius or two to be made out of keeping Lucius Appuleius a tribune of the plebs.”
“They’re actually more than that,” said Marius. “They’re a devoted following for the first man ever to stand on the rostra and take them seriously.’’ He shifted his weight onto his paretic left foot. “But these people here today don’t belong to Lucius Appuleius Saturninus. They don’t belong to anyone. Ye gods, there weren’t more Cimbri on the field at Vercellae than I see here! And I don’t have an army. All I have is a purple-bordered toga. A sobering thought.”
“Indeed it is,” said Sulla.
“Though, I don’t know.... Maybe my purple-bordered toga is all the army I need. All of a sudden, Lucius Cornelius, I’m looking at Rome in a different light than ever before. Today they’ve brought themselves down there to show themselves to us. But every day they’re inside Rome, going about whatever is their business. Within an hour they could be down there showing themselves to us again. And we believe we govern them?”
“We do, Gaius Marius. They can’t govern themselves. They put themselves in our keeping. But Gaius Gracchus gave them cheap bread to eat, and the aediles give them wonderful games to watch. Now Saturninus comes along and promises them cheap bread in the midst of a famine. He can’t keep his promise, and they’re beginning to suspect he can’t. Which is really why they’ve come to show themselves to him during his elections,” said Sulla.
Marius had found his metaphor. “They’re a gigantic yet very good-natured bull. When he comes to meet you because you have a bucket in your hand, all he’s interested in is the food he knows you’ve got in the bucket. But when he discovers the bucket is empty, he doesn’t turn in terrible rage to gore you. He just assumes you’ve hidden his food somewhere on your person, and crushes you to death looking for it without even noticing he’s turned you into pulp beneath his feet.”
“Saturninus is carrying an empty bucket,” said Sulla.
“Precisely,’’ said Marius, and turned away from the wall. “Come, Lucius Cornelius, let’s take the bull by his horns.”
“And hope,” said Sulla, grinning, “that he doesn’t have any hay on them after all!”
No one in the gargantuan crowd made it difficult for the senators and politically minded citizens who normally always cast their votes in the Comitia to get through; while Marius mounted the rostra, Sulla went to stand on the Senate steps with the rest of the patrician senators. The actual voters of the Plebeian Assembly that day found themselves an island in the ocean of fairly silent onlookers—and a sunken island at that, the rostra like a flat-topped rock standing above the well of the Comitia and the top surface of the ocean. Of course Saturninus’s thousands of rabble had been expected, which had led many of the senators and normal voters to secret knives or clubs beneath their togas, especially Caepio Junior’s little band of conservative young boni; but here was no Saturninian rabble. Here was all of lowly Rome in protest. Knives and clubs were suddenly felt to be a mistake.
One by one the twenty candidates standing for election as tribunes of the plebs declared themselves, while Marius stood by watchfully. First to do so was the presiding tribune, Lucius Appuleius Saturninus. And the whole vast crowd began to cheer him deafeningly, a reception which clearly amazed him, Marius discovered, shifting to where he could keep his eyes on Saturninus’s face. Saturninus was thinking, and transparently: what a following was this for one man! What might he not be able to do with three hundred thousand Roman lowly at his back? Who would ever have the courage to keep him out of the tribunate of the plebs when this monster cheered its approval?
Those who followed Saturninus in declaring their candidacies were greeted with indifferent silence; Publius Furius, Quintus Pompeius
Rufus of the Picenum Pompeys, Sextus Titius whose origins were Samnite, and the red-haired, grey-eyed, extremely aristocratic-looking Marcus Porcius Cato Salonianus, grandson of the Tusculan peasant Cato the Censor and great-grandson of a Celtic slave.
Last of all appeared none other than Lucius Equitius, the self-styled bastard son of Tiberius Gracchus whom Metellus Numidicus when censor had tried to exclude from the rolls of the Ordo Equester. The crowd began to cheer again, great billows of wildly enthusiastic sound; here stood a relic of the beloved Tiberius Gracchus. And Marius discovered how accurate his metaphor of the gigantic gentle bull had been, for the crowd began to move toward Lucius Equitius elevated on the rock of the rostra, utterly oblivious of its power. Its inexorable tidal swell crushed those in the Comitia and its environs closer and closer together. Little waves of panic began among these intending voters as they experienced the suffocating sense of helpless terror all men feel who find themselves at the center of a force they cannot resist.
While everyone else stood paralyzed, the paralyzed Gaius Marius stepped forward quickly and held out his hands palms facing-out, miming a gesture which commanded HALT HALT HALT! The crowd halted immediately, the pressure decreased a little, and now the cheers were for Gaius Marius, the First Man in Rome, the Third Founder of Rome, the Conqueror of the Germans.
“Quickly, you fool!” he snapped at Saturninus, who stood apparently rapt, entranced by the noise emanating from those cheering throats. “Say you heard thunder— anything to dismiss the meeting! If we don’t get our voters out of the Comitia, the crowd will kill them by sheer weight of numbers!’’ Then he had the heralds sound their trumpets, and in the sudden silence he lifted his hands again. “Thunder!” he shouted. “The voting will take place tomorrow! Go home, people of Rome! Go home, go home!”
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 99
