“You will be consul very soon,” she was saying.
“At fifty-two. Older than Gaius Marius was.”
“And a grandfather! Have you seen the baby yet?”
“Oh, Aurelia, please! Sooner or later I suppose I’ll have to go around to Quintus Pompeius’s house with Aelia on my arm—and have dinner—and chuck the child under the chin. But why should I care enough about the birth of a daughter to a daughter to want to rush round and see the sprog at once?”
“Little Pompeia is absolutely beautiful.”
“Then may she wreak as much havoc as Helen of Troy!”
“Don’t say that! I’ve always thought poor Helen led a most unhappy life. A chattel. A bed-toy,” said Aurelia strongly.
“Women are chattels,” said Sulla, smiling.
“I am not! I have my own property and my own activities.”
Sulla’s tone changed. “The siege of Asculum Picentum is no more. Gaius Julius will be home any day. And then what happens to all this brave talk?”
“Don’t, Lucius Cornelius! Though I love him dearly, I dread his walking through the door. He will find fault with everything from the children to my role as landlady, and I will try desperately to please him until he issues some order I cannot countenance!”
“At which point, my poor Aurelia, you will tell him he’s wrong, and the unpleasantness will start,” said Sulla tenderly.
“Would you put up with me?” she demanded fiercely.
“Not if you were the last woman left alive, Aurelia.”
“Whereas Gaius Julius does put up with me.”
“Huh! What a world!”
“Oh, stop being flippant!” she snapped.
“Then I’ll change the subject,” said Sulla, and leaned back on both hands. “How is Scaurus’s widow?”
The purple eyes glistened. “Ecastor! Still interested?”
“Definitely.”
“I believe she’s under the guardianship of a relatively young man—Livius Drusus’s brother, Mamercus Aemilius Lepidus Livianus.”
“I know him. He assists Quintus Lutatius in Capua, but he fought with Titus Didius at Herculaneum and he went to Lucania with the Gabinii. A sturdy sort of fellow—the kind who is thought the salt of the earth by everybody.” He sat up, looking suddenly as alert as a cat sighting prey. “Is that how the wind lies? Is she going to marry Lepidus Livianus?”
Aurelia laughed. “I doubt it! He’s married to a rather nasty woman who keeps her foot on him all the time. The Claudia who is a sister of Appius Claudius Pulcher—you know, his wife made Lucius Julius clean out the temple of Juno Sospita in his toga. She died in childbirth two months later.”
“She’s my Dalmatica’s cousin—the dead Balearica, I mean,” said Sulla with a grin.
“Everyone’s her cousin,” said Aurelia.
Sulla looked brisk. “Do you think my Dalmatica would be interested in me these days?”
Aurelia shook her head. “I have no idea! That is an honest answer, Lucius Cornelius. I have no contact with my woman peers whatsoever beyond my immediate family.”
“Then perhaps you should cultivate her acquaintance when your husband comes home. You’ll definitely have more spare time,” said Sulla slyly.
“Enough, Lucius Cornelius! You can go home for that.”
They walked to the door together. As soon as their forms had disappeared from the scope of Young Caesar’s spyhole, he came down from the ceiling and was gone.
“Will you cultivate Dalmatica for me?” Sulla asked as his hostess held open the front door.
“No, I will not,” said Aurelia. “If you’re so interested, you cultivate her. Though I can tell you that a divorce from Aelia will make you a very unpopular man.”
“I’ve been unpopular before. Vale.”
*
The tribal elections were held without the presence of the consul after the Senate conferred the task of scrutineer upon Metellus Pius the Piglet, who was a praetor and had come to Rome with Sulla. That the tribunes of the plebs were going to be a conservative lot was obvious when none other than Publius Sulpicius Rufus came in first and Publius Antistius not far behind him. Sulpicius had secured his release from Pompey Strabo; having made an excellent reputation in the field as a commander against the Picentes, Sulpicius now wished to make a political reputation. Rhetorical and forensic reputations he already possessed, having had a brilliant Forum career as a youth. Known as far and away the most promising orator among the younger men, like the dead Crassus Orator he affected the Asianic style, and was as gracefully calculated in his gestures as he was golden of voice, language, and rhetorical devices. His most famous case had been his prosecution of Gaius Norbanus for illegally convicting Caepio the Consul of Gold of Tolosa fame; that he had lost had not harmed his reputation in the least. A great friend of Marcus Livius Drusus’s—though he did not support enfranchisement for the Italians—he had since Drusus’s death drawn close to Quintus Pompeius Rufus, Sulla’s running mate in the coming consular elections. That he was now the President of the College of Tribunes of the Plebs did not bode well for tribunician antics of demagogue kind. And, in fact, it looked as if not one of the ten who were elected was of the demagogue kind, nor was the election of the college followed by a spate of controversial new legislation. More promising was the installation of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer as a plebeian aedile; very rich, he was rumored to be planning wonderful games for the war-weary city.
With the Piglet presiding again, the Centuries met on the Campus Martius to hear the consular and the praetorian candidates declare themselves. When Sulla and his colleague Quintus Pompeius Rufus announced a joint candidacy, the cheers were deafening. But when Gaius Julius Caesar Strabo Vopiscus Sesquiculus announced his intention to contest the consular elections, there was a stunned silence.
“You can’t!” said Metellus Pius in a winded voice. “You haven’t been praetor yet!”
“It is my contention that there is nothing on the tablets to prevent a man’s seeking the consulship before he is praetor,” said Caesar Strabo, and produced a screed so long that the audience groaned. “I have here a dissertation which I shall read from beginning to end to prove my contention beyond all argument.”
“Roll it up and don’t bother, Gaius Julius Strabo!” called the new tribune of the plebs Sulpicius from the crowd below the candidates’ platform. “I interpose my veto! You may not run.”
“Oh, come, Publius Sulpicius! Let us try the law for once instead of using it to try people!” cried Caesar Strabo.
“I veto your candidacy, Gaius Julius Strabo. Come down from there and join your peers,” said Sulpicius firmly.
“Then I declare my candidacy for praetor!”.
“Not this year,” Sulpicius said. “I veto that too.”
Sometimes the younger brother of Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar and Lucius Julius Caesar the censor could be vicious and his temper lead him into difficulties, but today Caesar Strabo merely shrugged, grinned, and walked down quite happily to stand with Sulpicius.
“Fool! Why did you do that?” asked Sulpicius.
“It might have worked if you hadn’t been here.”
“I would have killed you first,” said a new voice.
Caesar Strabo turned, saw that the voice belonged to the young man Gaius Flavius Fimbria, and sneered. “Pull your head in! You couldn’t kill a fly, you money-hungry cretin!’’
“No, no!” said Sulpicius quickly, putting himself between them. “Go away, Gaius Flavius! Go on, go away! Shoo! Leave the governing of Rome to your seniors—and your betters.”
Caesar Strabo laughed, Fimbria slunk away.
“He’s a nasty piece of work, young and all though he may be,” said Sulpicius. “He’s never forgiven you for prosecuting Varius.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Caesar Strabo. “When Varius died, he lost his only visible means of support.”
There were to be no more surprises; once all the nominations for consul and pra
etor were in, everyone went home to wait with what patience he could muster for the appearance of the consul, Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo.
*
He did not return to Rome until almost the end of December, then insisted upon celebrating his triumph before he held any elections. That he had delayed his appearance in Rome was due to a brilliant idea he had conceived after the capture of Asculum Picentum. His triumphal parade (of course he was triumphing) would be a poor sort of affair; no spoils to display, no fascinatingly exotic floats depicting tableaux of sights and peoples alien to the inhabitants of Rome. At which point he had his brilliant idea. He would display thousands of male Italian children in his parade! His troops were put to scouring the countryside, and in time several thousand Italian boys aged between four and twelve were rounded up. So when he rode in his triumphal chariot along the prescribed route through the streets of Rome, he was preceded by a legion of little lads shuffling along; the sight was awesome, if only because it indicated how many Italian men had lost their lives through the agency of Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo.
The curule elections were held a scant three days before the New Year. Lucius Cornelius Sulla was returned as senior consul, with his friend Quintus Pompeius Rufus as his junior colleague. Two men with red hair from opposite ends of the Roman nobleman spectrum. Rome looked forward to having a team in office for a change, and hoped that some of the damage due to the war would be repaired.
It was to be a six-praetor year, which meant that most of the governors of overseas provinces were prorogued: Gaius Sentius and his legate Quintus Bruttius Sura in Macedonia; Publius Servilius Vatia and his legates Gaius Coelius and Quintus Sertorius in the Gauls; Gaius Cassius in Asia Province; Quintus Oppius in Cilicia; Gaius Valerius Flaccus in Spain; the new praetor Gaius Norbanus was sent to Sicily, and another new praetor, Publius Sextilius, was sent to Africa. The urban praetor was a very elderly man, Marcus Junius Brutus. He had a son just admitted to the Senate, but he had announced himself a candidate for praetor despite lifelong ill health because, he said, Rome needed decent men in office when so many decent men were in the field and unavailable. The praetor peregrinus was a plebeian Servilius of the Augur’s family.
*
New Year’s Day dawned bright and blue, and the omens of the night watch had been auspicious. It was perhaps not surprising that, after two years of dread and fear, all of Rome decided to turn out to watch the new consuls inaugurated. Everyone could see complete victory against the Italians looming, and there were many who hoped the new consuls would find the time now to deal with the city’s appalling financial troubles.
Returned to his house from the night watch, Lucius Cornelius Sulla had his purple-bordered toga draped around him, and with his own hands put on his Grass Crown. He sallied forth from his house to relish the novelty of walking behind no less than twelve togate lictors who carried on their shoulders the bundle of rods ritually bound with red leather thongs. Ahead of him went the knights who had chosen to escort him rather than his colleague, and behind him walked the senators, including his dear friend the Piglet.
This is my day, he told himself as the huge crowd sighed and then voiced its approval at sight of the Grass Crown. For the first time in my life I have no rivals and no peers. I am the senior consul, I have won the war against the Italians, I wear the Grass Crown. I am greater than a king.
The two processions originating at the houses of the new consuls joined up at the foot of the Clivus Palatinus where the old Porta Mugonia still stood, a relic of the days when Romulus had walled his Palatine city. From there, six thousand men wended their way in solemn order across the Velia and down the Clivus Sacer into the lower Forum, most of them knights with the narrow stripe—the angustus clavus—on their tunics, a thinned Senate following behind the consuls and their lictors. And everywhere spectators cheered; they were perched on the front walls of the Forum houses, the arcade and upper roofs of the basilicas, the roofs of those temples offering a view, every set of steps leading up onto the Palatine, all the temple vestibules and steps, the roofs of the Via Nova taverns and shops, the loggias of the great houses of Palatine and Capitol facing the Forum. People. People everywhere. Cheering the man wearing the Grass Crown, a wreath most of them had never seen.
Sulla walked with a regal dignity he had not owned before, acknowledging the admiration by inclining his head very slightly only, no smile touching his lips, no smugness or glee in his eyes. This was the dream made real; this was his day. One of the things he found fascinating was that he actually saw individual people in the vast crowds—a beautiful woman, an old man, a child perched on someone’s shoulders, some outlandish foreigner—and Metrobius. Almost he stopped, forced himself onward. Just a face in the crowd. Loyal and discreet as always. No sign of a special relationship showed on his darkly handsome face, save perhaps in his eyes, though no one except Sulla could have known it. Sad eyes. And then he was gone, he was behind. He was in the past.
As the knights reached the area bordering the well of the Comitia and turned left to walk between the temple of Saturn and the vaulted arcade opposite housing the Twelve Gods, they paused, stopped, swung their heads toward the Clivus Argentarius and began to cheer in an acclamation far louder than that they had accorded Sulla. He heard but couldn’t see, and was conscious of sweat crawling between his shoulder blades. Someone was stealing his crowd! For the crowd too had turned from every rooftop and tier of steps toward the same place, their cheers swelling amid a swaying sea of hands like water weeds.
No greater effort had Sulla ever had cause to make than the one he made now—no change in his expression, no diminution in the royal inclinations of his head, not even a flicker of feeling in his eyes. The procession started to move again; across the lower Forum he walked behind his lictors, never once craning his neck to verify what awaited him at the bottom of the Clivus Argentarius. What had stolen his crowd. Was stealing his day. His day!
And there he was. Gaius Marius. Accompanied by the boy. Clad in toga praetexta. Waiting to join the ranks of the curule senators who immediately followed Sulla and Pompeius Rufus. Back in action again. Going to attend the inauguration of the new consuls, attend the meeting of the Senate afterward in the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus atop the Capitol, attend the feast in the same temple. Gaius Marius. Gaius Marius the military genius. Gaius Marius the hero.
When Sulla drew opposite him, Gaius Marius bowed. Body filled with a howling rage he couldn’t permit one single person to see—even Gaius Marius—Sulla turned and bowed to him. Whereupon the adulation reached fever pitch, the people screamed and shrieked with joy, every . face was wet with tears. Then after Sulla turned to the left to walk beside the temple of Saturn and ascend the Capitol hill, Gaius Marius took his place among the men with purple-bordered togas, the boy at his side. So much had he improved that he hardly dragged his left foot, could display his left hand holding up all those heavy folds of toga and let the people see that it was no longer clumped and deformed; as for his face—he could afford to ignore the grimace his smile had become by not smiling.
I will ruin you for this, Gaius Marius, thought Sulla. You knew this was my day! Yet you couldn’t resist showing me that Rome still belongs to you. That I—a patrician Cornelius!—am less than the dust compared to you, an Italian hayseed with no Greek. That I do not have the love of the people. That I can never rise to your heights. Well, maybe all this is really so, Gaius Marius. But I will ruin you. You yielded to the temptation of showing me on my day. If you had chosen to return to public life tomorrow—or the day after—or any other day—the rest of your life would be very different from the agony I will make it. For I will ruin you. Not by poison. Not by knife. I will make it impossible for your descendants ever to exhibit your imago in a family funeral procession, I will mar your reputation for all time.
Somehow it got itself over and done with, that awful day. Looking pleased and proud, the new senior consul stood to one side in the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the same huge
ly mindless grin on his face that the statue of the Great God wore, allowing the senators to pay homage to Gaius Marius just as if most of them didn’t loathe him. When the realization dawned upon Sulla that Marius had done what he had done in all innocence—that he hadn’t stopped to think he might be stealing Sulla’s day, only thought what a splendid day today would be to make his reappearance in the Senate—the realization had no power to mollify Sulla’s rage or soften his vow to ruin this terrible old man. Rather, the sheer thoughtlessness of it made Marius’s action more intolerable still; in Marius’s mind, Sulla mattered so little he never so much as loomed in the background of Marius’s mirror of self. And for that, Marius would pay bitterly.
“Huh-huh-how dared he!” whispered Metellus Pius to Sulla as the meeting concluded and the public slaves began to bring in the feast. “He duh-duh-did it deliberately!”
“Oh yes, he did it deliberately,” lied Sulla.
“Are you guh-guh-going to let him geh-geh-get away with it?” Metellus Pius demanded, almost weeping.
“Calm down, Piglet, you’re stuttering,” said Sulla, using that detested name, but in a manner the Piglet couldn’t find detestable. “I refuse to let any of these fools see how I feel. Let them—and him!—think I approve wholeheartedly. I’m the consul, Piglet. He isn’t. He’s just a sick old man trying to snatch back an ascendancy he can never know again.”
“Quintus Lutatius is livid about it,” said Metellus Pius, concentrating on his stammer. “See him over there? He just gave Marius a piece of his mind, and the old hypocrite tried to pretend he never meant it that way, would you believe it?”
“I missed that,” said Sulla, looking to where Catulus Caesar was talking with obviously furious hauteur to his brother the censor and to Quintus Mucius Scaevola, who looked unhappy. Sulla grinned. “He’s picked the wrong audience in Quintus Mucius if he’s saying insulting things about Gaius Marius.”
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 197
