“I won’t mind the traveling,” said Pompeius Rufus, who was feeling somewhat better. Perhaps his body servant was in the right of it, perhaps the omen didn’t indicate his death.
That night Pompey Strabo held a small banquet in his warm and commodious farmhouse. His very attractive young son was present, as were the other cadets, the legates Lucius Junius Brutus Damasippus and Lucius Gellius Poplicola, and four unelected military tribunes.
“Glad I’m not consul anymore and have to put up with those fellows,” said Pompey Strabo, meaning the elected tribunes of the soldiers. “Heard they refused to go to Rome with Lucius Cornelius. Typical. Stupid oafs! All got inflated ideas of their importance.”
“Do you really approve of the march on Rome?” asked Pompeius Rufus a little incredulously.
“Definitely. What else could Lucius Cornelius do?”
“Accept the decision of the People.”
“An unconstitutional spilling of the consul’s imperium? Oh, come now, Quintus Pompeius! It wasn’t Lucius Cornelius acted illegally, it was the Plebeian Assembly and that traitorous cunnus Sulpicius. And Gaius Marius. Greedy old grunt. He’s past it, but he hasn’t even got the sense left to realize that. Why should he be allowed to act unconstitutionally without anyone’s saying a word against him, while poor Lucius Cornelius stands up for the constitution and gets shit thrown at him from every direction?”
“The People never have loved Lucius Cornelius, but they most certainly don’t love him now.”
“Does that worry him?” asked Pompey Strabo.
“I don’t think so. I also think it ought to worry him.”
“Rubbish! And cheer up, cousin! You’re out of it now. When they find Marius and Sulpicius and all the rest, you won’t be blamed for their execution,” said Pompey Strabo. “Have some more wine.”
The next morning the junior consul decided to stroll about the camp, familiarize himself with its layout. The suggestion he do so had come from Pompey Strabo, who declined to keep him company.
“Better if the men see you on your own,” he said.
Still astonished at the warmth of his reception, Pompeius Rufus walked wherever he liked, finding himself greeted by everyone from centurions to rankers in a most friendly manner. His opinion was asked about this or that, he was flattered and deferred to. However, he was intelligent enough to keep his most condemnatory thoughts to himself until such time as Pompey Strabo was gone and his own command an established thing. Among these unfavorable reactions was shock at the lack of hygiene in the camp’s sanitary arrangements; the cesspits and latrines were neglected, and far too close to the well from which the men were drawing water. This was typical of genuine landsmen, thought Pompeius Rufus. Once they considered a place was fouled, they just picked up and moved somewhere else.
When the junior consul saw a large group of soldiers coming toward him he felt no fear, no premonition, for they all wore smiles and all seemed eager for a conference. His spirits lifted; perhaps he could tell them what he thought about camp hygiene. So as they clustered thickly about him he smiled on them pleasantly, and hardly felt the first sword blade as it sheared through his leather under-dress, slid between two ribs, and kept on going. Other swords followed, many and quick. He didn’t even cry out, didn’t have time to think about the mice and his socks. He was dead before he fell to earth. The men melted away.
“What a sad business!” exclaimed Pompey Strabo to his son as he got up from his knees. “Stone dead, poor fellow! Must have been wounded thirty times. All mortal too. Good sword work—must have been good men.”
“But who?” asked another cadet when Young Pompey didn’t answer.
“Soldiers, obviously,” said Pompey Strabo. “I imagine the men didn’t want a change of general. I had heard something to that effect from Damasippus, but I didn’t take it too seriously.”
“What will you do, Father?” asked Young Pompey.
“Send him back to Rome.”
“Isn’t that illegal? Casualties in the war are supposed to be given a funeral on the spot.”
“The war’s over, and this is the consul,” said Pompey Strabo. “I think the Senate should see his body. Young Gnaeus, my son, you can make all the arrangements. Damasippus can escort the body.”
It was done with maximum effect. Pompey Strabo sent a courier to summon a meeting of the Senate, then delivered Quintus Pompeius Rufus to the door of the Curia Hostilia. No explanation was tendered beyond what Damasippus had to say in person—and that was simply that the army of Pompey Strabo refused to have a different commander. The Senate got the message. Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo was humbly asked if—considering that his delegated successor was dead—he would mind keeping his command in the north.
Sulla read his personal letter from Pompey Strabo in private.
Well, Lucius Cornelius, isn’t this a sorry business? I’m afraid my army isn’t saying who did it, and I’m not about to punish four good legions for something only thirty or forty men took it upon themselves to do. My centurions are baffled. So is my son, who stands on excellent terms with the rankers and can usually find out what’s going on. It’s my fault, really. I just didn’t realize how much my men loved me. After all, Quintus Pompeius was a Picentine. I didn’t think they’d mind him one little bit.
Anyway, I hope the Senate sees its way clear to keeping me on as commander-in-chief in the north. If the men wouldn’t countenance a Picentine, they certainly wouldn’t countenance a stranger, now would they? We’re a rough lot, we northerners.
I would like to wish you very well in all your own endeavors, Lucius Cornelius. You are a champion of the old ways, but you do have an interesting new style.
A man might learn from you. Please understand that you have my wholehearted support, and don’t hesitate to let me know if there is any other way in which I can help you.
Sulla laughed, then burned the letter, one of the few reassuring pieces of news he had received. That Rome wasn’t happy with the Sullan alterations to the constitution he now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, for the Plebeian Assembly had met and elected ten new tribunes of the plebs. Every man voted in was an opponent of Sulla and a supporter of Sulpicius; among them were Gaius Milonius, Gaius Papirius Carbo Arvina, Publius Magius, Marcus Vergilius, Marcus Marius Gratidianus (the adopted nephew of Gaius Marius), and none other than Quintus Sertorius. When Sulla had heard that Quintus Sertorius was putting himself up as a candidate, he had sent a warning to Sertorius not to stand if he knew what was good for him. A warning Sertorius had chosen to ignore, saying steadily that it could now make little difference to the State who was elected a tribune of the plebs.
This signal defeat gave Sulla to understand that he must ensure the election of strongly conservative curule magistrates; both the consuls and all six praetors would have to be staunch proponents of the leges Corneliae. The quaestors were easy. They were all either reinstated senators or young men from senatorial families who could be relied upon to shore up the power of the Senate. Among them was Lucius Licinius Lucullus, who was seconded to Sulla’s service.
Of course one of the consular candidates would have to be Sulla’s own nephew, Lucius Nonius, who had been a praetor two years before, and would not offend his uncle if elected a consul. The pity of it was that he was a rather insipid man who had done nothing so far to distinguish himself, and was therefore not going to be someone the electors fancied. But his choice as a candidate would please Sulla’s sister, whom Sulla had almost forgotten, so little family feeling did he have. When she came to Rome to stay—as she did periodically—he never bothered to see her. That would have to change! Luckily Dalmatica was anxious to do what she could, and was an hospitable, patient kind of wife; she could look after his sister and the dreary Lucius Nonius, hopefully soon to be consul.
Two other consular candidates were welcome. The erstwhile legate of Pompey Strabo, Gnaeus Octavius Ruso, was definitely for Sulla and the old ways; he probably also had orders from Pompey Strabo. The second
promising candidate was Publius Servilius Vatia—a plebeian Servilius but from a fine old family, and highly thought of among the First Class. Into the bargain, he had a very formidable war record, always an electoral asset.
However, there was one candidate who worried Sulla greatly, chiefly because he would appear on the surface to the First Class as just the right kind of consular material, sure to uphold senatorial privilege and bolster knightly prerogatives, no matter how unwritten. Lucius Cornelius Cinna was a patrician of Sulla’s own gens, he was married to an Annia, possessed of a luminous war record, and well known as an orator and advocate. But Sulla knew he had tied himself in some way to Gaius Marius—probably Marius had bought him. Like so many senators, a few months ago his finances were well known to be shaky—yet when the senators were expelled for debt, Cinna was discovered to be very plump in the purse. Yes, bought, thought Sulla gloomily. How clever of Gaius Marius! Of course it was to do with Young Marius and the accusation that he had murdered Cato the Consul. In normal times, Sulla doubted if Cinna could have been bought; he didn’t seem that sort of man—one reason why he was going to appeal to the electors of the First Class. Yet when times were hard and ruin loomed of a scale to affect a man’s sons as well as his own future, many a highly principled man might allow himself to be bought. Particularly if that highly principled man didn’t think his altered status would lead him to alter his principles.
As if the curule elections were not worrying enough, Sulla was also aware that his army was tired of occupying Rome. It wanted to go east to fight Mithridates, and of course did not fully understand the reasons why its general kept lingering inside Rome. It was also beginning to experience increased resistance to its residence within the city; not that the number of free meals and free beds and free women had decreased, more that those who had never condoned its presence now were emboldened to retaliate by chucking the contents of their chamber pots out their windows onto hapless soldier heads.
Had Sulla only been willing to bribe heavily, he might have ensured success in the curule elections, as the climate was exactly right for bountiful bribery. But for nothing and nobody would Sulla consent to part with his little hoard of gold. Let Pompey Strabo pay legions out of his own purse if he chose and let Gaius Marius say he was prepared to do the same; Lucius Cornelius Sulla regarded it as Rome’s duty to foot the bill. If Pompeius Rufus had still been alive, Sulla might have secured the money from the wealthy Picentine; but he hadn’t thought of that before he sent the wealthy Picentine north to his death.
My plans are good but their execution is precarious, he thought. This wretched city is too full of men with opinions of their own, all determined to get what they want. Why is it that they can’t see how sensible and proper my plans are? And how can any man draw sufficient power unto himself to ensure his plans remain undisturbed? Men of ideals and principles are the ruin of the world!
And so toward the end of December he sent his army back to Capua under the command of the good faithful Lucullus, now officially his quaestor. Having done that, he threw caution to the winds and his chances into the lap of Fortune by holding the elections.
Though he was convinced he had not underestimated the strength of the resentment against him in every stratum of Roman society, the truth was that Sulla did not grasp the depth and the extent of that animosity. No one said a word, no one looked at him awry; but beneath this lip service the whole of Rome was finding it impossible to forget or forgive Sulla’s bringing an army into Rome—or Sulla’s army holding its allegiance to Sulla ahead of its allegiance to Rome.
This seething resentment ran from the highest echelons all the way down into the very gutter. Even men as inescapably committed to him and to the supremacy of the Senate as the Brothers Caesar and the Brothers Scipio Nasica wished desperately that Sulla could have lit upon some other way of solving the Senate’s dilemma than using his army. And below the First Class there were two additional ulcerations festering inside men’s minds; that a tribune of the plebs had been condemned to death during his year in office, and that the old and crippled Gaius Marius had been hounded out of home, family, position—and condemned to death.
Some hint of all this rankling dissatisfaction became apparent as the new curule magistrates were returned. Gnaeus Octavius Ruso was the senior consul, but the junior consul was Lucius Cornelius Cinna. The praetors were an independent lot, among whom were none Sulla could really count on.
But it was the election of the tribunes of the soldiers in the Assembly of the Whole People that troubled Sulla most of all. They were uniformly ugly men, and included wolfs-heads like Gaius Flavius Fimbria, Publius Annius, and Gaius Marcius Censorinus. Ripe to ride roughshod over their generals, thought Sulla—let any general with this lot in his legions try to march on Rome! They’d kill him with as little scruple as Young Marius did Cato the Consul. I am very glad I am passing out of my consulship and won’t have them in my legions. Every last one of them is a potential Saturninus.
*
Despite the disappointing electoral results, Sulla was not a wholly unhappy man as the old year wore away to its end. If the delay had done nothing else, it had given his agents in Asia Province, Bithynia, and Greece time to apprise him what the true situation was. Definitely his wisest course was to go to Greece, worry about Asia Minor later. He had not the troops to attempt a flanking maneuver; it would have to be a straight effort to roll Mithridates back and out of Greece and Macedonia. Not that the Pontic invasion of Macedonia had gone according to plan; Gaius Sentius and Quintus Bruttius Sura had proven yet again that might was not always enough when the enemy was Roman. They had wrought great deeds with their tiny armies. But they couldn’t possibly keep going.
His most urgent consideration was therefore to get himself and his troops out of Italy. Only by defeating King Mithridates and plundering the East would he inherit Gaius Marius’s unparalleled reputation. Only by bringing home the gold of Mithridates would he pull Rome out of her financial crisis. Only if he did all this would Rome forgive him for marching against her. Only then would the Plebs forgive him for turning their precious assembly into a place best suited for playing dice and twiddling thumbs.
On his last day as consul, Sulla called the Senate to a “special meeting and spoke to them with genuine sincerity; he believed implicitly in himself and in his new measures.
“If it were not for me, Conscript Fathers, you would not now exist. I can say that in truth, and I do say it. Had the laws of Publius Sulpicius Rufus remained on the tablets, the Plebs—not even the People!—would now be ruling Rome without any kind of check or balance. The Senate would be just another vestigial relic staffed by too few men to form a quorum. No recommendations to Plebs or People could be made, nor any decisions be taken about matters we regard as purely senatorial business. So before you start weeping and wailing about the fate of the Plebs and the People, before you start wallowing in an excess of undeserved pity for the Plebs and the People, I suggest that you remember what this august body would be at this moment were it not for me.”
“Here, here!” cried Catulus Caesar, very pleased because his son, one of the new slightly-too-young senators, had finally come back from his war duties and was sitting in the Senate; he had been anxious that Catulus should see Sulla act as consul.
“Remember too,” said Sulla, “that if you wish to retain the right to guide and regulate Rome’s government, you must uphold my laws. Before you contemplate any upheavals, think of Rome! For Rome’s sake, there must be peace in Italy. For Rome’s sake, you must make a strenuous effort to find a way around our financial troubles and give Rome back her old prosperity. We cannot afford the luxury of seeing tribunes of the plebs run riot. The status quo as I have set it up must be maintained! Only then will Rome recover. We cannot permit Sulpician idiocies!”
He looked directly at the consuls-elect. “Tomorrow, Gnaeus Octavius and Lucius Cinna, you will inherit my office and the office of my dead colleague, Quintus Pompeius. I shall have
become a consular. Gnaeus Octavius, will you give me your solemn word that you will uphold my laws?”
Octavius didn’t hesitate. “I will, Lucius Sulla. You have my solemn word on it.”
“Lucius Cornelius of the branch cognominated Cinna, will you give me your word that you will uphold my laws?”
Cinna stared at Sulla fearlessly. “That all depends, Lucius Cornelius of the branch cognominated Sulla. I will uphold your laws if they prove to be a workable way of governing. At the moment I am not sure they will. The machinery is so incredibly antique, so manifestly unwieldy, and the rights of a large part of our Roman community have been—I can find no other word for it—annulled. I am very sorry to inconvenience you, but as things stand, I must withhold my promise.”
An extraordinary change came over Sulla’s face; like some other people of late, the Senate was now privileged to catch a glimpse of that naked clawed creature which dwelt inside Lucius Cornelius Sulla. And like all others, the senators never forgot that glimpse. And in the years to come, would shiver at the memory as they waited for the reckoning.
Before Sulla could open his mouth to answer, Scaevola Pontifex Maximus interjected.
“Lucius Cinna, leave well enough alone!” he cried; he was remembering that after his first glimpse of Sulla’s beast, Sulla had marched on Rome. “I implore you, give the consul your promise!”
Then came the voice of Antonius Orator. “If this is the sort of attitude you intend to adopt, Cinna, then I suggest you watch your back! Our consul Lucius Cato neglected to do so, and he died.”
The House was murmuring, new senators as well as old, and most of the words were of exasperation and fear at Cinna’s stand. Oh, why couldn’t all these consular men leave ambition and posturing aside? Didn’t they see how desperately Rome needed peace, internal stability?
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