He smiled at the bull, gazing at him, it seemed, with insight.
The priestlings stepped forward; Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus turned to one side and each took a golden chalice from a tripod, while the Rex Sacrorum took up a golden bowl of spelt.
“I cry for silence!” thundered Caesar.
Silence fell, so complete that the distant noises of busy activity in the Forum arcades of shops floated clearly on the warm and gentle breeze.
The flautist put his instrument made from the shinbone of an enemy to his lips, and began to blow a mournful tune intended to drown out these sounds of Forum business.
As soon as the flute began the Rex Sacrorum sprinkled the bull’s face and head with spelt, a thistledown shower which the beast seemed to take as rain; its pink tongue came out and sopped up the granules of fine flour on its nose.
The popa moved to stand in front of the bull, his stunning hammer held loosely by his side. “Agone? Do I strike?” he asked Caesar loudly.
“Strike!” cried Caesar.
Up flashed the hammer, down to land with perfect precision between the bull’s mild and unsuspecting eyes. It collapsed on its front knees with an impact heavy enough to feel through the ground, its head outstretched; slowly the hindquarters subsided to the right, a good omen.
Like the popa stripped naked to the waist, the cultarius took the horns in both his hands and lifted the bull’s limp head toward the sky, the muscles in his arms standing out ribbed and sinewy, for the bull’s head weighed more than fifty pounds. Then he lowered his burden to touch the cobbles with its muzzle.
“The victim consents,” he said to Caesar.
“Then make the sacrifice!” cried Caesar.
Out came the big razor—sharp knife from its scabbard, and while the popa hauled the bull’s head into the air, the cultarius cut its throat with one huge deep slice of his knife. The blood gushed but did not spurt—this fellow knew his job. No one—even he—was spattered. As the popa released the head to lie turned to the right, Caesar handed the cultarius his chalice, and the cultarius caught some of the blood so accurately that not a drop spilled down the side of the vessel. Metellus Pius gave his chalice to be filled in turn.
Avoiding the steady turgid crimson stream which flowed away downhill, Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus walked to the bare stone altar. There Caesar trickled the contents of his cup, and said, “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 this offering made to you as an atonement, and accept too the gold from the horns and hooves of your victim, and keep it to adorn your new temple.”
Now Metellus Pius emptied his cup. “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—I ask that you accept the atonement of Gaius Julius Caesar, who was your flamen and is still your servant.”
The moment Metellus Pius had clearly enunciated the last syllable of his prayer, a collective sigh of relief went up, loud enough to be heard above the sad tweetling of the tibicen.
Last to offer was the Rex Sacrorum, who sprinkled the remnant of his spelt into the starred splashes of blood on 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—I bear witness that you have been offered the life—force of this best and greatest and strongest victim, and that all has been done in accordance with the prescribed ritual, and that no error has been made. Under the terms of our contractual agreements with you, I therefore conclude that you are well pleased with your offering and its donor, Gaius Julius Caesar. Furthermore, Gaius Julius Caesar wishes to burn his offering whole for your delectation, and does not wish to take any of it for himself. May Rome and all who live in her prosper as a result.”
And it was over. Over without a single mistake. While the priests and augurs unveiled their heads and began to walk down the slope of the Clivus Capitolinus toward the Forum, the priestlings who were professional sacrificers began to clean up. They used a hoist and cradle to winch the huge carcass off the ground and deposit it upon the pyre, then set a torch to it amid their own prayers. While their slaves worked with buckets of water to wash away the last traces of blood upon the ground, a peculiar aroma arose, a mixture of delicious roasting beef and the costly incenses Caesar had bought to stuff among the brands in the pyre. The blood on the altar would be left until after the bull had burned away to bony ashes, then it too would be scrubbed. And the ball of gold was already on its way to the Treasury, where it would be marked with the name of its donor and the nature and date of the occasion.
The feast which followed in the temple of Jupiter Stator on the Velia at the top of the Forum Romanum was at least as successful as the sacrifice; as Caesar passed among his guests exhorting them to enjoy themselves and exchanging pleasantries, many eyes assessed him that had never so much as noticed him before. He was now by virtue of rank and birth a contender in the political arena, and his manner, his carriage, the expression on his handsome face, all suggested that he bore watching.
“He has a look of your father about him,” said Metellus Pius to Catulus, still flushed with the well-being which stemmed from a ceremony executed without one improperly pronounced word.
“He should,” said Catulus, eyeing Caesar with an instinctive dislike. “My father was a Caesar. Such a pretty fellow, isn’t he? I could suffer that. But I’m not sure I can suffer his awful conceit. Look at him! Younger by far than Pompeius! Yet he struts as if he owned the world.”
The Piglet was disposed to find reasons. “Well, how would you feel in his shoes? He’s free of that terrible flaminate.”
“We may rue the day we let Sulla instruct us to free him,” said Catulus. “See him over there with Sulla? Two of a kind!”
The Piglet was staring at him, mildly astonished; Catulus could have bitten off his tongue. For an indiscreet moment he had forgotten his auditor was not Quintus Hortensius, so used was he to having his brother-in-law’s ear permanently ready to listen. But Hortensius was not present, because when Sulla had informed the priestly colleges who were the new members, he had excluded the name of Quintus Hortensius. And Catulus considered Sulla’s omission quite unforgivable. So did Quintus Hortensius.
Unaware that he had offended Catulus, Sulla was busy getting some information from Caesar.
“You didn’t drug your animal. That was taking a colossal chance,” he said.
“I’m one of Fortune’s favorites,” said Caesar.
“What leads you to that conclusion?’’
“Only consider! I have been released from my flaminate—before that I survived an illness men usually die from—I evaded your killing me—and I am teaching my mule to emulate a very aristocratic horse with marked success.”
“Does your mule have a name?” asked Sulla, grinning.
“Of course. I call it Flop Ears.”
“And what did you call your very aristocratic horse?”
“Bucephalus.”
Sulla shook with laughter, but made no further comment, his eyes roaming everywhere. Then he extended an arm. “You do this sort of thing remarkably well for an eighteen-year-old.”
“I’m taking your advice,” said Caesar. “Since I am unable to blend into the background, I decided that even this first banquet in my name should not be unworthy of it.”
“Oh, arrogant! You really are! Never fear, Caesar, it is a memorable feast. Oysters, dug—mullets, licker—fish of the Tiber, baby quail—the menu must have cost you a fortune.”
“Certainly more than I can afford,” said Caesar calmly.
“Then you’re a spendthrift,” said Sulla, anything but.
Caesar shrugged. “Money is a tool, Lucius Cornelius. I don’t care whether I have it or not, if counting up a hoard is what you believe to be the purpose of money. I believ
e money must be passed on. Otherwise it stagnates. So does the economy. What money comes my way from now on, I will use to further my public career.”
“That’s a good way to go bankrupt.”
“I’ll always manage,” said Caesar, unconcerned.
“How can you know that?”
“Because I have Fortune’s favor. I have luck.”
Sulla shivered. “I have Fortune’s favor! I have luck! But remember—there is a price to pay. Fortune is a jealous and demanding mistress.”
“They’re the best kind!” said Caesar, and laughed so infectiously that the room went quiet. Many of the men present took that memory of a laughing Caesar into the future with them—not because they suffered any premonitions, but because he had two qualities they envied him—youth and beauty.
Of course he couldn’t leave until after the last guest was gone, and that was not until many hours later; by then he had every last one of them assessed and filed away because he had that kind of mind, always storing up whatever it encountered. Yes, an interesting company, was his verdict.
“Though I found none I was tempted to make a friend of,” he said to Gaius Matius at dawn the next day. “Sure you don’t want to come with me, Pustula? You have to serve in your ten campaigns, you know.”
“No, thank you. I have no wish to be so far from Rome. I will wait for a posting, and hope it’s Italian Gaul.”
The farewells were genuinely exhausting. Wishing he might have dispensed with them, Caesar endured them with what patience he could muster. The worst feature of it was the many who had clamored to go with him, though he had steadfastly refused to take anyone save Burgundus. His two body servants were new purchases—a fresh start, men with no knowledge of his mother.
Finally the goodbyes were over—Lucius Decumius, his sons and the Brethren of the crossroads college, Gaius Matius, his mother’s servants, Cardixa and her sons, his sister Ju—Ju, his wife, and his mother. Caesar was able to climb on his inglorious mule and ride away.
PART III
from JANUARY 81 B.C.
until SEXTILIS (AUGUST) 80 B.C.
1
Not two months had gone by when Sulla decided that Rome had adjusted satisfactorily to the presence of his proscriptions. The slaughter was only marginally more subtle than Marius’s slaughter during the few days of his seventh consulship; the streets of Rome didn’t run with quite so much blood, and there were no bodies piled in the lower Forum Romanum. The bodies of those killed in Sulla’s proscriptions (the victims were forbidden funeral rites and interment) were dragged with a meat hook under the sternum to the Tiber, and thrown in; only the heads were piled in the lower Forum Romanum, around the perimeter of the public fountain known as the Basin of Servilius.
As the amount of property gathered in for the State by the administrator, Chrysogonus, accumulated, a few more laws came into being: the widow of a man proscribed could not remarry, and the wax masks of Gaius Marius and Young Marius, of Cinna or his ancestors, or of any proscribed man and his ancestors, could not be displayed at any family funeral.
The house of Gaius Marius had been sold at auction to the present Sextus Perquitienus, grandson of the man who had made that family’s fortune, and next door to whom Marius had erected his house; it now served as an annex for art works to the Perquitienus residence, though it was not incorporated in it.
At first the auctions Chrysogonus conducted saw the estates of the proscribed knocked down to successful bidders at a fair market price, but the amount of money to buy was not great, so that by the time the tenth auction occurred, the prices being realized were dropping rapidly. It was at this moment that Marcus Crassus began to bid. His technique was shrewd; rather than set his heart on the best property on the agenda, he chose to concentrate upon less desirable estates, and was able to pick them up for very little. The activities of Lucius Sergius Catilina were more feral. He concentrated upon informing Chrysogonus of traitorous talk or actions, and thus succeeded in having his elder brother Quintus proscribed, after which he ensured that his brother-in-law Caecilius was proscribed. The brother was sent into exile, but the brother-in-law died, and Catilina applied to the Dictator for a special lawto inherit, arguing that in neither case was he named in the will, nor was he a direct heir—both men had male children. When Sulla acceded to his request, Catilina became rich without needing to spend a single sestertius at the auctions.
It was in a dually chilly climate, therefore, that Sulla celebrated his triumph on the last day of January. Ordinary Rome turned out en masse to do him honor, though the knights stayed home, apparently on the theory that should Sulla or Chrysogonus see their faces, they might wind up on the next proscription list. The Dictator displayed the spoils and tributes of Asia and King Mithridates with every tricky device conceivable to camouflage the fact that his conclusion of the war had been as hasty as it was premature, and that in consequence the booty was disappointing considering the wealth of the enemy.
On the following day Sulla held an exposition rather than a triumph, displaying what he had taken from Young Marius and Carbo; he was careful to inform the spectators that these items were to be returned to the temples and people they had been taken from. On this day the restored exiles—men like Appius Claudius Pulcher, Metellus Pius, Varro Lucullus and Marcus Crassus—marched not as senators of Rome, but as restored exiles, though Sulla considerately spared them the indignity of having to don the Cap of Liberty, normally the headgear of freedmen.
*
The taming of Pompey proved to be more difficult than reconciling Rome to the proscriptions, as Sulla learned the day before he held his triumph. Pompey had ignored his instructions from the Dictator and sailed with his whole army from Africa to Italy. The letter he sent Sulla from Tarentum informed Sulla that his army had refused to let him sail without every last one of his loyal soldiers coming along, and he claimed to have been powerless to prevent this mass embarkation (without explaining how it was that he had gathered sufficient ships to fit five extra legions and two thousand horse on board); at the end of his missive he again asked to be allowed to celebrate a triumph.
The Dictator sped a couriered letter to Tarentum in which for the second time he denied Pompey this mouth—watering triumph. The same courier carried back a letter from Pompey to Sulla apologizing for the refractory behavior of his army, which he protested yet again he could not control. Those naughty, naughty soldiers were insisting their darling general be allowed his well-deserved triumph! If the Dictator were to continue his negative attitude, Pompey was very much afraid his naughty, naughty soldiers might take matters into their own hands, and elect to march to Rome. He himself would—of course!—do everything in his power to prevent this!
A second letter was galloped from Sulla down the Via Appia to Tarentum, containing a third refusal: NO TRIUMPH. This proved to be one refusal too many. Pompey’s six legions and two thousand cavalry troopers set out to march to Rome. Their darling general came along with them, protesting in another letter to Sulla that he was only doing so in order to prevent his men taking actions they might later have cause to regret.
The Senate had been privy to every episode in this duel of wills, horrified at the presumption of a twenty-four-year-old knight, and had issued a senatus consultum to back every one of Sulla’s orders and denials. So when Sulla and the Senate were informed that Pompey and his army had reached Capua, resistance hardened. The time was now nearing the end of February, winter storms came and went, and the Campus Martius was already crowded because other armies were sitting on it—two legions belonging to Lucius Licinius Murena, the ex-governor of Asia Province and Cilicia, and two legions belonging to Gaius Valerius Flaccus, the ex-governor of Gaul-across-the-Alps. Each of these men was to triumph shortly.
Hot on the heels of the inevitable letter ordering Pompey to halt at Capua (and informing Pompey that there were four battle—hardened legions occupying the Campus Martius), the Dictator himself left Rome in the direction of Capua. With him
were the consuls Decula and the elder Dolabella, Metellus Pius the Pontifex Maximus, Flaccus Princeps Senatus the Master of the Horse, and an escort of lictors; no soldiers traveled with them to protect them.
Sulla’s letter caught Pompey before he could leave Capua, and the news that four battle—hardened legions were encamped outside Rome shocked him into remaining where he was. It had never been Pompey’s intention to go to war against Sulla; the march was a bluff purely designed to obtain a triumph. So to learn that the Dictator had four battle—hardened legions at his immediate disposal broke upon Pompey like a torrent of ice—cold water. He himself knew he was bluffing—but did Sulla know it? Of course not! How could he? To Sulla, this march would look like a repeat of his own from Capua in the year that he had been consul. Pompey flew into an absolute funk.
So when the news came that Sulla in person was approaching without an army to back him, Pompey scrambled frantically to ride out of his camp and up the Via Appia—also without his army to back him. The circumstances of this meeting bore some resemblance to their first encounter at the ford across the Calor River. But today Sulla was not drunk, though inevitably he was mounted upon a mule. He was dressed in the purple-bordered toga praetexta and preceded by twenty-four lictors shivering in crimson tunics and brass—bossed black leather belts, with the ominous axes inserted in their bundles of rods. In Sulla’s wake there followed thirty more lictors—twelve belonging to Decula, twelve to the elder Dolabella, and six to the Master of the Horse, who had a praetor’s rank. So the occasion was more dignified and impressive than had been that at the Calor crossing. More in tune with poor Pompey’s original fantasies.
But there could be no arguing that Pompey had grown in stature during the twenty-two months which had elapsed since his original meeting with Sulla; he had conducted one campaign in conjunction with Metellus Pius and Crassus, another in Clusium with Sulla and Crassus, and a third in complete command abroad. So now he didn’t quibble about wearing his best gold—plated suit of armor, and flashed and glittered quite as much as did his gaily caparisoned Public Horse. The Dictator’s party was coming up on foot; unwilling to look more martial, Pompey dismounted.
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