“Hear, hear! Hear, hear!” came from every part of the House, sprinkled with scattered applause.
Rutilius Rufus shrugged. “I can see I’m talking to ears turned to stone—what a pity so few of you can read lips! I will conclude then by saying only one more thing. If we employ paid informers, we will let loose a disease upon our beloved homeland that will enervate it for decades to come. A disease of spies, petty, blackmailers, haunting doubts of friends and even relatives—for there are some in every community who will do anything for money—am I not right, Lucius Marcius Philippus? We will unleash that shabby brigade which slinks about the corridors of the palaces of foreign kings—which always appears out of the woodwork whenever fear rules a people, or repressive legislation is enacted. I beg you, do not unleash this shabby brigade! Let us be what we have always been—Romans! Emancipated from fear, above the ploys of foreign kings.’’ He sat down. “That is all, Lucius Licinius.”
No one applauded, though there were stirs and whispers, and Gaius Marius was grinning.
And that, thought Marcus Livius Drusus as the House wound up its session, was that. Scaurus Princeps Senatus had clearly won, and Rome would be the loser. How could they listen to Rutilius Rufus with ears turned to stone? Gaius Marius and Rutilius Rufus had spoken eminent good sense— good sense so clear it was almost blinding. How had Gaius Marius put it? A harvest of death and blood that would give pause to the dragon’s teeth. The trouble is, hardly one of them knows an Italian beyond some business deal or uneasy boundary sharing. They don’t even have the faintest idea, thought Drusus sadly, that inside each Italian is a seed of hatred and revenge just waiting to germinate. And I would never have known any of this either, had I not met Quintus Poppaedius Silo upon a battlefield.
His brother-in-law Marcus Porcius Cato Salonianus was seated on the top tier not far away; he threaded a path down to Drusus, put his hand upon Drusus’s shoulder.
“Will you walk home with me, Marcus Livius?”
Drusus looked up from where he still sat, mouth slightly open, eyes dull. “Go on without me, Marcus Porcius,” he said. “I’m very tired, I want to collect my thoughts.”
He waited until the last of the senators were disappearing through the doors, then signed to his servant to pick up his stool and go home ahead of his master. Drusus walked slowly down to the black and white flagging of the floor. As he left the building, the Curia Hostilia slaves were already beginning to sweep the tiers, pick up a few bits of rubbish; when they were done with their cleaning, they would lock the doors against the encroaching hordes of the Subura just up the road, and go back to the public slaves’ quarters behind the three State Houses of the major flaminate priests.
Head down, Drusus dragged himself through the ranks of the portico columns, wondering how long it would take Silo and Mutilus to hear of today’s events, sure in his heart that the lex Licinia Mucia would go—complete with Scaurus’s amendments—through the process from promulgation to ratification in the prescribed minimum time limit of three market days and two intervals; just seventeen days from now, Rome would have a new law upon its tablets, and all hope of a peaceful reconciliation with the Italian Allied nations would be at an end.
When he bumped into Gaius Marius, it was entirely unexpected. And literal. Stumbling backward, the apology died on his lips at the look on Marius’s fierce face. Behind Marius lurked Publius Rutilius Rufus.
“Walk home with your uncle and me, Marcus Livius, and drink a cup of my excellent wine,” said Marius.
Not with all the accumulated wisdom of his sixty-two years could Marius have predicted Drusus’s reaction to this kindly tendered invitation; the taut dark Livian face already starting to display lines crumpled, tears flooded from beneath the eyelids. Pulling his toga over his head to hide this unmanliness, Drusus wept as if his life was over, while Marius and Rutilius Rufus drew close to him and tried to soothe him, mumbling awkwardly, patting him on the back, clucking and shushing. Then Marius had a bright idea, dug in the sinus of his toga, found his handkerchief, and thrust it below the hem of Drusus’s impromptu hood.
Some time elapsed before Drusus composed himself, let the toga fall, and turned to face his audience.
“My wife died yesterday,” he said, hiccoughing.
“We know, Marcus Livius,” said Marius gently.
“I thought I was all right! But this today is too much. I’m sorry I made such an exhibition of myself.”
“What you need is a long draft of the best Falernian,” said Marius, leading the way down the steps.
And indeed, a long draft of the best Falernian did much to restore Drusus to some semblance of normality. Marius had drawn an extra chair up to his desk, at which the three men sat, the wine flagon and the water pitcher handy.
“Well, we tried,” said Rutilius Rufus, sighing.
“We may as well not have bothered,” rumbled Marius.
“I disagree, Gaius Marius,” said Drusus. “The meeting was recorded word for word. I saw Quintus Mucius issue the instructions, and the clerks scribbled as busily while you two were talking as they did while Scaurus and Crassus Orator talked. So at some time in the future, when events have shown who is right and who is wrong, someone will read what you said, and posterity will not consider all Romans to be arrogant fools.”
“I suppose that’s some consolation, though I would rather have seen everyone turn away from the last clauses of the lex Licinia Mucia,” said Rutilius Rufus. “The trouble is, they all live among Italians—but they know nothing about Italians!”
“Quite so,” said Drusus dryly. He put his cup down on the desk and allowed Marius to refill it. “There will be war,” he said.
“No, not war!” said Rutilius Rufus quickly.
“Yes, war. Unless I or someone else can succeed in blocking the ongoing work of the lex Licinia Mucia, and gain universal suffrage for all Italy.” Drusus sipped his wine. “On the body of my dead wife,” he said, eyes filling with tears he resolutely blinked away, “I swear that I had nothing to do with the false registration of these Italian citizens. But it was done, and I no sooner heard about it than I knew who was responsible. The high leaders of all the Italian nations, not merely my friend Silo and his friend Mutilus. I don’t think for one moment that they truly thought they could get away with it. I think it was done in an effort to make Rome see how desperately universal suffrage is needed in Italy. For I tell you, nothing short of it can possibly avoid war!”
“They don’t have the organization to make war,” said Marius.
“You might be unpleasantly surprised,” said Drusus. “If I am to believe Silo’s chance remarks—and I think I must— they have been talking war for some years. Certainly since Arausio. I have no evidence, simply knowledge of what sort of man Quintus Poppaedius Silo is. But knowing what sort of man he is, I think they are already physically preparing for war. The male children are growing up and they’re training them as soon as they reach seventeen. Why should they not? Who can accuse them of anything beyond wanting to be sure their young men are ready against the day Rome wants them? Who can argue with them if they insist the arms and equipment they’re gathering are being gathered against the day Rome demands legions of auxiliaries from them?”
Marius leaned his elbows on the desk and grunted. “Very true, Marcus Livius. I hope you’re wrong. Because it’s one thing to fight barbarians or foreigners with Roman legions— but if we have to fight the Italians, we’re fighting men who are as warlike and Romanly trained as we are ourselves. The Italians would be our most formidable enemies, as they have been in the distant past. Look at how often the Samnites used to beat us! We won in the end—but Samnium is only a part of Italy! A war against a united Italy may well kill us.”
“So I think,” said Drusus.
“Then we had better start lobbying in earnest for peaceful integration of the Italians within the Roman fold,” said Rutilius Rufus with decision. “If that’s what they want, then that’s what they must have. I’ve
never been a wholehearted advocate of universal enfranchisement for Italy, but I am a sensible man. As a Roman I may not approve. But as a patriot I must approve. A civil war would ruin us.”
“You’re absolutely sure of what you say?” asked Marius of Drusus, his voice somber.
“I am absolutely sure, Gaius Marius.”
“I think, then, that you should journey to see Quintus Silo and Gaius Mutilus as soon as possible,” said Marius, forming ideas aloud. “Try to persuade them—and through them, the other Italian leaders—that in spite of the lex Licinia Mucia, the door to a general citizenship is not irrevocably closed. If they’re already preparing for war, you won’t be able to dissuade them from continuing preparations. But you may be able to convince them that war is so horrific a last resort that they would do well to wait. And wait. And wait. In the meantime, we must demonstrate in the Senate and the Comitia that a group of us is determined to see enfranchisement for Italy. And sooner or later, Marcus Livius, we will have to find a tribune of the plebs willing to put his life on the line and legislate to make all Italy Roman.”
“I will be that tribune of the plebs,” said Drusus firmly.
“Good! Good! No one will be able to accuse you of being a demagogue, or of wooing the Third and Fourth Classes. You will be well above the usual age for a tribune of the plebs, therefore will present as someone mature, responsible. You are the son of a most conservative censor, and the only liberal tendency you have is your well-known sympathy for the Italians,” said Marius, pleased.
“But not yet,” said Rutilius Rufus strongly. “We must wait, Gaius Marius! We must lobby, we must secure support in every sector of the Roman community first—and that is going to take several years. I don’t know whether you noticed it, but the crowds outside the Curia Hostilia today proved to me what I have always suspected—that opposition to Italian enfranchisement is not limited to the top. It’s one of those odd issues where Rome is united from the top all the way down to the capite censi Head Count—and where, unless I’m mistaken, the Latin Rights citizens are also on Rome’s side.”
“Exclusivity,” said Marius, nodding. “Everyone likes being better than the Italians. I think it’s very possible that this sense of superiority is more entrenched among the lower Classes than it is among the elite. We’ll have to enlist Lucius Decumius.”
“Lucius Decumius?” asked Drusus, knitting his brows.
“A very low fellow I am acquainted with,” said Marius, grinning. “However, he has a great deal of clout in his low way. And as he is utterly devoted to my sister-in-law Aurelia, I shall endeavor to enlist her so she in turn can enlist him.”
Drusus’s frown grew darker. “I doubt you’ll have much luck with Aurelia,” he said. “Didn’t you see her older brother, Lucius Aurelius Cotta, up there on the praetors’ part of the platform? He was cheering and clapping with the rest. And so was his uncle, Marcus Aurelius Cotta.”
“Rest easy, Marcus Livius, she’s not nearly as hidebound as her male relatives,” said Rutilius Rufus, looking besotted. “That young woman has a mind of her own, and she’s tied by marriage to the most unorthodox and radical branch of the Julii Caesares. We will enlist Aurelia, never fear. And, through her, we will also enlist Lucius Decumius.”
There was a light knock on. the door; Julia floated in, surrounded by the gauziest of linen draperies, purchased on Cos. Like Marius, she looked splendidly brown and fit.
“Marcus Livius, my dear fellow,” she said, coming to slip her arms about him as she stood behind his chair and leaned her head down to kiss his cheek. “I shan’t unman you by being too maudlin, I just want you to know how very sorry I am, and to tell you that there is always a warm welcome for you here.”
And, so soothing was her presence, so strong her radiated sympathy, that Drusus found himself exquisitely comforted, and felt revived rather than cast down by her condolences. He reached up to take her hand, and kissed it. “I thank you, Julia.”
She sat in the chair Rutilius Rufus brought for her and accepted a cup of lightly watered wine, absolutely sure of her welcome in this male group, though it must have been obvious to her as she came in that the discussion had been deep and serious.
“The lex Licinia Mucia,” she said.
“Quite right, mel,” said Marius, gazing at her adoringly, more in love with her now than he had been when he married her. “However, we’ve gone as far as we can at the moment. Though I shall need you. I’ll talk to you about that later on.”
“I shall do whatever I can,” she said, clasped Drusus on the forearm and shook it, beginning to laugh. “You, Marcus Livius, indirectly broke up our holiday!”
“How could I possibly have done that?” asked Drusus, smiling.
“Blame me,” said Rutilius Rufus with a wicked chuckle.
“I do!” said Julia, darting a fierce look at him. “Your uncle, Marcus Livius, wrote to us in Halicarnassus last January and told us that his niece had just been divorced for adultery, having given birth to a red-haired son!”
“It’s all true,” said Drusus, his smile growing.
“Yes, but the trouble is, he has another niece—Aurelia! And, though you may not know it, there was a little gossip in the family about her friendship with a certain red-haired man who is now serving as senior legate to Titus Didius in Nearer Spain. So when we read your uncle’s cryptic comment, my husband assumed he was talking about Aurelia. And I insisted on coming home because I would have offered my life as a bet that Aurelia would not involve herself with Lucius Cornelius Sulla beyond simple friendship. When we got here, I learned that we had been worried about the wrong niece! Publius Rutilius tricked us brilliantly.” She laughed again.
“I was missing you,” said Rutilius Rufus impenitently.
“Families,” said Drusus, “can be a dreadful nuisance. But I must admit that Marcus Porcius Cato Salonianus is a more likable man by far than Quintus Servilius Caepio. And Livia Drusa is happy.”
“Then all’s well,” said Julia.
“Yes,” said Drusus. “All is well.”
*
Quintus Poppaedius Silo was traveling from place to place during the days which intervened between the first discussion of the lex Licinia Mucia and its passage into law by a virtually unanimous vote of the tribes in the Assembly of the Whole People. So it was from Gaius Papius Mutilus that Silo learned of the new law, when he arrived in Bovianum.
“Then it’s war,” he said to Mutilus, face set.
“I am afraid so, Quintus Poppaedius.”
“We must call a council of all the national leaders.”
“It is already in train.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Where the Romans will never think of looking,” said Papius Mutilus. “In Grumentum, ten days from now.”
“Excellent!” cried Silo. “Inland Lucania is a place no Roman ever thinks of for any reason. There aren’t any Roman landlords or latifundia within a day’s ride of Grumentum.”
“Nor any resident Roman citizens, more importantly.”
“How will we get rid of visiting Romans, should any turn up?” asked Silo, frowning.
“Marcus Lamponius has it all worked out,” said Mutilus with a faint smile. “Lucania is brigand territory. So any visiting Romans will be captured by brigands. After the council is over, Marcus Lamponius will cover himself in glory by securing their release without payment of ransom.’’
“Clever! When do you yourself intend to start out?”
“Four days from now.” Mutilus linked his arm through Silo’s and strolled with him into the peristyle-garden of his large and elegant house; for, like Silo, Mutilus was a man of property, taste, education. “Tell me what happened during this trip of yours to Italian Gaul, Quintus Poppaedius.”
“I found things pretty much as Quintus Servilius Caepio led me to believe two and a half years ago,” said Silo contentedly. “A whole series of neat-looking little towns scattered up the River Medoacus beyond Patavium, and up both the Sontiu
s and the Natiso above Aquileia. The iron is shipped overland from that part of Noricum near Noreia, but most of its journey is by water—down an arm of the Dravus, then it’s portaged across the watershed to the Sontius and the Tiliaventus, where it goes the rest of the way by water also. The settlements highest up the rivers are devoted to the production of charcoal, which is sent down to the steel settlements by water. I posed as a Roman praefectus fabrum when I visited the area—and I paid in cash, which everyone grabbed at. Sufficient cash, I add, to ensure that they’ll work madly to complete my order. And, as I turned out to be the first serious client they had seen, they’re very happy to go on making arms and armaments exclusively for me.”
Mutilus looked apprehensive. “Are you sure it was wise to pose as a Roman praefectus fabrum?” he asked. “What happens if a real Roman praefectus fabrum walks in? He’ll know you’re not what you purported to be—and notify Rome.”
“Rest easy, Gaius Papius, I covered my tracks very well,” said Silo, unperturbed. “You must understand that because of me it is not necessary for these new settlements to search for business. Roman orders go to established places like Pisae and Populonia. Whereas shipping from Patavium and Aquileia, our armaments can be transported down the Adriatic to Italian ports the Romans don’t use. No Roman will get a whiff of our cargoes, let alone learn that eastern Italian Gaul is in the armaments business. Roman activity lies in the west, on the Tuscan Sea.”
“Can eastern Italian Gaul take on more business?”
“Definitely! The busier the area becomes, the more smiths it will attract. I’ll say this for Quintus Servilius Caepio, he’s got a wonderful little scheme going.”
“What about Caepio? He’s no friend to the Italians!”
“But cagey,” said Silo, grinning. “It’s no part of his plans to advertise his business ventures inside Rome—he’s just trying to hide the Gold of Tolosa in out-of-the-way corners. And he works well shielded from senatorial scrutiny, which means he’s not going to be vetting anything beyond the account books too thoroughly. Nor visiting his investments too often. It surprised me when he demonstrated a talent for this sort of thing—his blood is much higher quality than his thinking apparatus under every other circumstance. No, we don’t need to worry too much about Quintus Servilius Caepio! As long as the sesterces keep tinkling into his moneybags, he’ll stay very quiet and very happy.”
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