“It’s very hot, Lucius Cornelius, and I dislike the feel of sweating,” said Caesar.
“Do you change the lining often?” Sulla asked, and actually lifted the apex to sniff its interior. “It smells sweet. Ye gods, how a military helmet can stink! I’ve seen horses turn up their noses at the prospect of drinking from a military helmet.”
A faint distaste crossed Caesar’s face, but he shrugged, tried to pass it off. “The exigencies of war,” he said lightly.
Sulla grinned. “It will be interesting to see how you cope with those, boy! You’re a trifle precious, aren’t you?”
“In some ways, perhaps,” said Caesar levelly.
The ivory apex bounced onto the couch. “So you hate the job, eh?” Sulla asked.
“I hate it.”
“Yet Gaius Marius was afraid enough of a boy to hedge him round with it.”
“It would seem so.”
“I remember they used to say in the family that you were very clever—could read at a glance. Can you?’’
“Yes.”
Back to the desk: Sulla shuffled his papers and found a single sheet which he tossed at Caesar. “Read that,” he said.
One glance told Caesar why. It was execrably written, with such a squeezing together of the letters and absence of columns that it really did look like a continuous, meaningless squiggle.
“You don’t know me Sulla but do I have something to tell you and it is that there is a man from Lucania named Marcus Aponius which has a rich property in Rome and I just want you to know that Marcus Crassus had this man Aponius put on the proscription list so he could buy the property real cheap at auction and that is what he did for two thousand sesterces—A Friend.’’
Caesar finished his effortless translation and looked at Sulla, eyes twinkling.
Sulla threw back his head and laughed. “I thought that’s what it said! So did my secretary. I thank you, Caesar. But you haven’t seen it and you couldn’t possibly have read it even if you had seen it.’’
“Absolutely!”
“It causes endless trouble when one cannot do everything oneself,” Sulla said, sobering. “That is the worst feature about being Dictator. I have to use agents—the task is too Herculean. The man mentioned in there is someone I trusted. Oh, I knew he was greedy, but I didn’t think he’d be so blatant.”
“Everyone in the Subura knows Marcus Licinius Crassus.”
“What, because of his little arsons—the burning insulae?”
“Yes—and his fire brigades which arrive the moment he’s bought the property cheaply, and put the fire out. He’s becoming the Subura’s biggest landlord. As well as the most unpopular. But he won’t get his hands on my mother’s insula!” vowed Caesar.
“Nor will he get his hands on any more proscription property,” said Sulla harshly. “He impugned my name. I warned him! He did not listen. So I will never see him again. He can rot.”
It was awkward listening to this: what did Caesar care about the troubles a dictator had with his agents? Rome would never see another dictator! But he waited, hoping Sulla would eventually get to the point, and sensing that this roundabout route was Sulla’s way of testing his patience—and probably tormenting him too.
“Your mother doesn’t know it and nor do you, but I didn’t order you killed,” the Dictator said.
Caesar’s eyes opened wide. “You didn’t? That’s not what one Lucius Cornelius Phagites led Ria to believe! He got off with three talents of my mother’s money pretending to spare me when I was ill. You’ve just finished telling me how awful it is to have to use agents because they get greedy. Well, that’s as true of the bottom as it is of the top.”
“I’ll remember the name, and your mother will get her money back,” said Sulla, obviously angry, “but that is not the point. The point is that I did not order you killed! I ordered you brought before me alive so I could ask you exactly the questions I have asked you.”
“And then kill me.”
“That was my original idea.”
“And now you’ve given your word that you won’t kill me.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about divorcing Cinna’s daughter?”
“No. I will never divorce her.”
“So that leaves Rome with a difficult problem. I can’t have you killed, you don’t want the job, you won’t divorce Cinna’s daughter because she’s your way out of the job—and don’t bother trying to give me high—flown explanations about honor and ethics and principles!” Suddenly a look of incredible old age came into the ruined face, the unsupported lips folded and flapped, worked on themselves; he was Cronus contemplating eating his next child whole. “Did your mother tell you what transpired?”
“Only that you spared me. You know her.”
“Extraordinary person, Aurelia. Ought to have been a man.”
Caesar’s most charming smile dawned. “So you keep saying! I must admit I’m rather glad she wasn’t a man.”
“So am I, so am I! Were she a man, I’d have to look to my laurels.” Sulla slapped his thighs and leaned forward. “So, my dear Caesar, you continue to be a trouble to all of us in the priestly colleges. What are we going to do with you?”
“Free me from my flaminate, Lucius Cornelius. You can do nothing else save kill me, and that would mean going back on your word. I don’t believe you would do that.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t break my word?”
Caesar raised his brows. “I am a patrician, one of your own kind! But more than that, I am a Julian. You’d never break your word to one as highborn as I.”
“That is so.” The Dictator leaned back in his chair. “We of the priestly colleges have decided, Gaius Julius Caesar, to free you from your flaminate, just as you have surmised. I can’t speak for the others, but I can tell you why I want you freed. I think Jupiter Optimus Maximus does not want you for his special flamen. I think he has other things in mind for you. It is very possible that all of the business about his temple was his way of freeing you. I do not know for sure. I only feel it in my bones—but a man can do far worse than to follow such instincts. Gaius Marius was the longest trial of my life. Like a Greek Nemesis. One way or another, he managed to spoil my greatest days. And for reasons I do not intend to go into, Gaius Marius exerted himself mightily to chain you. I tell you this, Caesar! If he wanted you chained, then I want you freed. I insist upon having the last laugh. And you are the last laugh.”
Never had Caesar conceived of salvation from this unlikely quarter. Because it had been Gaius Marius who chained him, Sulla would see him freed. As he sat there looking at Sulla, Caesar became unshakably convinced that for no other reason was he being released. Sulla wanted the last laugh. So in the end Gaius Marius had defeated himself.
“I and my colleagues of the priestly colleges are now of the opinion that there may have been a flaw in the rituals of your consecration as flamen Dialis. Several of us—not I, but enough others—were present at that ceremony, and none of them can be absolutely certain that there was not a flaw. The doubt is sufficient given the blood—soaked horror of those days, so we have agreed that you must be released. However, we cannot appoint another flamen Dialis while you live, just in case we are mistaken and there was no flaw.” Sulla put both palms down on his desk. “It is best to have an escape clause. To be without a flamen Dialis is a grave inconvenience, but Jupiter Optimus Maximus is Rome, and he likes things to be legal. Therefore while you live, Gaius Julius Caesar, the other flamines will share Jupiter’s duties among them.”
He must speak now. Caesar moistened his lips. “This seems a just and prudent course,” he said.
“So we think. It means, however, that your membership in the Senate ceases as of the moment the Great God signifies his consent. In order to obtain his consent, you will give Jupiter Optimus Maximus his own animal, a white bull. If the sacrifice goes well, your flaminate is over. If it should not go well-why, we will have to think again. The Pontifex Maximus an
d the Rex Sacrorum will preside”—a flicker of antic mirth came and went in the pale cold eyes—“but you will conduct the sacrifice yourself. You will provide a feast for all the priestly colleges afterward, to be held in the temple of Jupiter Stator in the upper Forum Romanum. This offering and feast are in the nature of a piaculum, to atone for the inconveniences the Great God must suffer because he will have no special priest of his own.”
“I am happy to obey,” said Caesar formally.
“If all goes well, you are a free man. You may be married to whomsoever you choose. Even Cinna’s brat.”
“I take it then that there has been no change in Cinnilla’s citizen status?” asked Caesar coolly.
“Of course there hasn’t! If there had been, you’d wear the laena and apex for the rest of your life! I’m disappointed in you, boy, that you even bothered to ask.”
“I asked, Lucius Cornelius, because the lex Minicia will automatically extend to apply to my children by my wife. And that is quite unacceptable. I have not been proscribed. Why should my children suffer?”
“Yes, I see that,” said the Dictator, not at all offended at this straight speaking. “For that reason, I will amend my law to protect men like you. The lex Minicia de liberis will apply only to the children of the proscribed. If any of them are lucky enough to marry a Roman, then their children will be Roman.” He frowned. “It should have been foreseen. It was not. One of the penalties of producing so much legislation so quickly. But the way in which it was drawn to my attention put me publicly in a ridiculous position. All your fault, boy! And your silly uncle, Cotta. The priestly interpretation of my laws anent the other laws of Rome already on the tablets must stand for the children of the proscribed.”
“I’m glad for it,” said Caesar, grinning. “It’s got me out of Gaius Marius’s clutches.”
“That it has.” Sulla looked brisk and businesslike, and changed the subject. “Mitylene has revolted from Roman tribute. At the moment my proquaestor Lucullus is in the chair, but I have sent my praetor Thermus to govern Asia Province.
His first task will be to put down the revolt of Mitylene. You have indicated a preference for military duty, so I am sending you to Pergamum to join Thermus’s staff. I expect you to distinguish yourself, Caesar,” said Sulla, looking his most forbidding. “On your conduct as a junior military tribune rests the final verdict about this whole business. No man in Roman history is more revered than the military hero. I intend to exalt all such men. They will receive privileges and honors not given to others. If you win accolades for bravery in the field, I will exalt you too. But if you do not do well, I will push you down harder and further than Gaius Marius ever could have.”
“That’s fair,” said Caesar, delighted at this posting.
“One more thing,” said Sulla, something sly in his gaze. “Your horse. The animal you rode while flamen Dialis, against all the laws of the Great God.”
Caesar stiffened. “Yes?”
“I hear you intend to buy the creature back. You will not. It is my dictate that you will ride a mule. A mule has always been good enough for me. It must also be good enough for you.”
The like eyes looked a like murder. But—oh no! said Gaius Julius Caesar to himself, you won’t trap me this way, Sulla! “Do you think, Lucius Cornelius, that I deem myself too good for a mule?” he asked aloud.
“I have no idea what you deem yourself too good for.”
“I am a better rider than any other man I have ever seen,” said Caesar calmly, “while you, according to reports, are just about the worst rider ever seen. But if a mule is good enough for you, it is certainly more than good enough for me. And I thank you sincerely for your understanding. Also your discretion.”
“Then you can go now,” said Sulla, unimpressed. “On your way out, send in my secretary, would you?”
His little flash of temper sent Caesar home less grateful for his freedom than he would otherwise have been; and then he found himself wondering if such had not been Sulla’s purpose in stipulating that final rather picayune condition about a mule. Sulla didn’t want his gratitude, didn’t want Aurelia’s son in any kind of cliental bondage to him. A Julian beholden to a Cornelian? That was to make a mockery of the Patriciate.
And, realizing this, Caesar ended in thinking better of Lucius Cornelius Sulla than he had when he left that man’s presence. He has truly set me free! He has given me my life to do with what I will. Or what I can. I will never like him. But there have been times when I have found it in me to love him.
He thought of the horse Bucephalus. And wept.
“Sulla is wise, Caesar,” said Aurelia, nodding her full approval. ‘ The drains on your purse are going to be considerable. You must buy a white bull without flaw or blemish, and you won’t find such for less than fifty thousand. The feast you have to provide for all of Rome’s priests and augurs will cost you twice that. After which, you have to equip yourself for Asia. And support yourself in what I fear will be a punishingly expensive environment. I remember your father saying that the junior military tribunes despise those among them who cannot afford every luxury and extravagance. You’re not rich. The income from your land has accumulated since your father died, you’ve not had any need to spend it. That is going to change. To buy back your horse would be an unwelcome extra. After all, you won’t be here to ride the beast. You must ride a mule until Sulla says otherwise. And you can find a splendid mule for under ten thousand.”
The look he gave his mother was not filial, but he said no word, and if he dreamed of his horse and mourned its permanent passing, he kept those things to himself.
*
The piacular sacrifice took place several days later, by which time Caesar had readied himself for his journey to take up duty under Marcus Minucius Thermus, governor of Asia Province. Though the feast was to be held in the temple of Jupiter Stator, the ritual of atonement was to take place at the altar erected below the steps which used to lead up to the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitol.
Togate (his laena and apex had been given to the priests for storage until they could be laid to rest in Jupiter’s unbuilt new temple), Caesar himself led his perfect white bull from his house down the Fauces Suburae and the Argiletum. Though he could have got away with tying ribbons around its splendid horns, Caesar now demonstrated his disregard for economy by having the animal’s horns covered in thick gold foil; around its neck garlands of the most exotic and costly flowers were thrown, and a wreath of perfect white roses sat between its horns. Its hooves too were gilded, its tail wound round with cloth—of—gold ribbons intertwined with flowers. With him walked his guests—his uncles the Cottae, and Gaius Matius, and Lucius Decumius and his sons, and most of the Brethren of the crossroads college. All were togate. Aurelia was not present; her sex forbade her attending any sacrifice to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, who was a god for Roman men.
The various colleges of priests were clustered waiting near the altar, and the professionals who would do the actual killing were there too—popa, cultarius, slaves. Though it was the custom to drug the sacrificial animal beforehand, Caesar had refused; Jupiter had to be given every opportunity to indicate pleasure or displeasure. This fact was immediately apparent to everyone; the pure white bull, not a mark or blemish on it, was brisk of eye and step, and swished its tail importantly—obviously it liked being the center of attention.
“You’re mad, boy!” whispered Gaius Aurelius Cotta as the waiting crowd grew larger and the steeply sloping Clivus Capitolinus began to level out. “Every eye is going to be on this animal, and you haven’t drugged him! What are you going to do if he refuses to behave? It will be too late by then!”
“He won’t misbehave,” said Caesar serenely. “He knows he carries my fate. Everyone must see that I bow unreservedly to the will of the Great God.’’ There came a faint chuckle. “Besides, I’m one of Fortune’s favorites, I have luck!”
Everyone gathered around. Caesar turned aside to the bronze trip
od holding a bowl of water and washed his hands; so did the Pontifex Maximus (Metellus Pius the Piglet), the Rex Sacrorum (Lucius Claudius), and the other two major flamines, Martialis (the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Valerius Flaccus) and Quirinalis (a new appointee, Mamercus). Bodies and clothing now ceremonially pure, the participating priests lifted the folds of toga lying across their shoulders and draped them over their heads. Once they had done so, everyone else followed.
The Pontifex Maximus moved to stand at the altar. “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus—if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear—receive your servant, Gaius Julius Caesar, who was your flamen and now wishes to atone for his wrongful appointment, which he wishes to point out to you was not of his doing!” cried the Piglet without a single stammer, and stepped back with a glare of fury aimed at Sulla, who was managing to keep a straight face; this flawless performance had cost the Piglet days of remorseless practice more grueling than military drills.
The professional priestlings were stripping the bull of its flowers and gold foil, patting the latter carefully into a rough ball, and paid no attention to Caesar, who now stepped forward and placed his hand upon the moist pink nose of his offering. The ruby—dark eyes surrounded by long thick lashes as colorless as crystal watched him as he did so, and Caesar felt no tremor of outrage in the white bull at his touch.
He prayed in a voice pitched much higher than his natural one, so that every word would travel. “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus—if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear—you who are of whichever sex you prefer—you who are the spirit of Rome—accept, I pray, this gift of your own sacred animal which I offer you as an atonement for my wrongful appointment as your flamen. It is my prayer that you release me from my vows and grant me the opportunity to serve you in some other capacity. I submit myself to your will, but offer you this best and greatest and strongest living thing in the knowledge that you will grant me what I ask because I have offered you exactly what I ought.”
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