The entire city turned out to watch the procession. Lucius found a spot with a good view, and wondered at his luck until he realized why the spot was vacant. A ragged beggar was standing nearby, emitting such a foul odor that all others had been driven away. Lucius ignored the stench. If he could stand the sight of Sulla on his funeral bier, he told himself, then surely he could endure the smell of a fellow human being.
Heading the procession was an image of Sulla himself, a duplicate of the equestrian statue in the Forum. As the effigy passed by, it emitted an odor of spices that overwhelmed even the stench of the beggar. The man looked at Lucius and flashed a toothless grin.
“They say that thing’s made of frankincense and cinnamon and all sorts of other costly spices. They took up a collection from all the rich women in Roma to have it sculpted. They’ll burn it on the funeral pyre along with Sulla. The smoke from it will perfume the whole city!”
Lucius wrinkled his brow. “Sulla’s to be cremated? His ancestors among the Cornelii were always interred.”
“Maybe so,” said the beggar, “but the dictator specified in his will that his remains are to be burned to ashes.” Such men, free to spend their days eavesdropping and collecting gossip, often knew what they were talking about. “You can imagine why.”
“Can I?”
“Think about it! What happened to Marius, Sulla’s rival, after he was dead? Sulla opened the crypt and took a shit on his body! There are those who’d do the same to Sulla, to have their revenge, never doubt it. Rather than give them the chance, he’s having himself cremated.”
Lucius looked sidelong at the beggar. The man was missing his left hand and leaned on a crutch under his right arm. There was a deep scar across his face and he appeared to be blind in one eye.
Following the effigy came the consuls and the other magistrates, and then the whole membership of the Senate, dressed in black. The leading Equestrians followed, then the Pontifex Maximus and the Vestal virgins. Then, by the hundreds, Sulla’s veterans came marching by, outfitted in their best armor and led by young Pompeius Magnus.
Musicians and a chorus of professional funeral singers, all women, followed. The musicians played a mournful tune on pipes and lyres, to which the chorus sang a song in praise of Sulla.
Mimes followed, breaking the somber mood with their buffoonery. Mimes were traditional at a wealthy man’s funeral, and among these were some of the most famous actors in Roma, members of Sulla’s inner circle since the days of his youth. The beggar felt obliged to point them out.
“Look, there’s Roscius the comedian! I saw him play the Swaggering Soldier once. They say he’s richer than most senators. And that’s old Metrobius, who always specialized in female roles. Played the leading lady in Sulla’s bed for years, they say, until that pretty-boy Chrysogonus took his place; getting on in years, but he still looks good in a stola. And of course that must be Sorex playing the archmime today, dressing up like Sulla and impersonating the dead man. He’s got the walk and hand gestures down perfectly, don’t you think? Let’s hope he doesn’t start chopping off people’s heads!”
The mimes were followed by the procession of Sulla’s ancestors. Men wore the wax masks of the dead and dressed in the ceremonial robes they had worn in life. They held aloft the garlands, crowns, and other military honors Sulla had received in his long, victorious career.
At last the honor guard approached, carrying the funeral bier. Sulla’s body lay upon a couch of ivory decorated with gold ornaments, draped with purple cloth and garlands of cypress. His wife Valeria and the children of his five marriages followed.
The procession appeared to be headed not toward the necropolis outside the Esquiline Gate, but in the opposite direction.
“Where are they taking him?” muttered Lucius.
“Didn’t you know?” said the beggar. “Sulla’s funeral pyre is out on the Field of Mars. His monument’s there as well. They’ve already put it up.”
“The Field of Mars? Only the kings were ever buried there!”
The beggar shrugged. “Even so, Sulla specified in his will that his monument should be on the Field of Mars.”
The last of the procession passed by. Spectators fell in behind. Lucius, grimly determined to see the burning of the corpse, joined the crush. The beggar did likewise, staying close beside him. Forever after, Lucius would remember the man’s stench whenever he thought of Sulla’s funeral day.
As the multitude assembled on the Field of Mars, storm clouds gathered. The sky grew so dark that the men in charge of the pyre nervously conferred. But as quickly as they gathered, the black clouds dispersed. A shaft of golden sunlight shone down on the bier atop the pyre.
“You know what they’ll say,” whispered the beggar, drawing close to Lucius. His smell had cleared a way for them to stand at the front of the crowd. “They’ll say his good luck followed Sulla even to his funeral pyre. Fortuna herself drove the rain away!”
Speeches were made. Sulla was praised as the savior of the Republic. Tales were recounted to demonstrate his virtue and genius. The words were like the buzzing of locusts in Lucius’s ears.
The pyre was lit. The flames reached higher and higher. Lucius was so close that the heat blasted his face and cinders swirled about him. The beggar pointed at the monument nearby, an imposing crypt the size of a small temple. He said something, but amid the crackle of flames Lucius could not hear. Lucius frowned and shook his head. The beggar spoke louder, almost shouting.
“What does it say? The inscription across the pediment of the temple? They say that Sulla composed his own epitaph.”
Waves of heated air obscured the view, but by squinting Lucius could make out the letters. He read aloud, “‘No friend ever did him a kindness, and no enemy ever did him a wrong, without being fully repaid.’”
The beggar cackled with laughter. Lucius stared at the man, feeling pity and revulsion. “Who are you?” he said.
“Me? Nobody. Everybody. One of Sulla’s enemies who received his full payment, I suppose. I was a soldier. Fought for Cinna, then for Marius-always against Sulla, though for no particular reason. And look at me now! Sulla paid me back in full. What about you, citizen? Dressed in your fancy clothes, looking spruce and sleek, with all your limbs intact; I suppose you were one of his friends. Did Sulla give you your just deserts?”
Lucius was carrying a small coin purse. He began to reach into it, then thought better and gave the whole thing to the beggar. Before the man could thank him, Lucius disappeared into the crowd. He made his way through the throng and back to the city.
The Forum was empty. His footsteps echoed as he hurried over the paving stones. Passing near the Rostra, he felt a sudden chill. He looked up and saw the gilded statue of Sulla in silhouette; the sun, behind the statue’s head, gave it a scintillating halo. Even in death, the dictator cast a cold shadow across his life.
74 B.C.
The winter of that year was unusually harsh. One storm after another dropped sleet and rain on the city. On many mornings the valleys brimmed with a cold, white mist, like bowls filled with milk, and the hills were glazed with frost, making the winding, paved streets that ran up and down the hillsides treacherous underfoot.
Lucius Pinarius contracted a cold early in the winter, and could not shake it off; the ailment moved from one part of his body to another, but would not depart. He ventured out seldom, and received few visitors. Only belatedly, from a talkative workman who came to repair a leak in his roof, did he learn the news that every gossip in the Forum already knew: Gaius Julius Caesar, while traveling in the Aegean, had been kidnapped by pirates.
Lucius had not seen Julia, or his son, for many months. His rare visits were too painful and awkward for all concerned. But hearing of her brother’s misfortune, he knew that Julia must be distraught, and he felt compelled to see her.
Coughing violently, Lucius put on a heavy woolen cloak. A single slave accompanied him through the dank, frosty streets to the far side of the Palatine
, where Julia lived with her husband, Quintus Pedius.
The marriage had apparently worked out well for her. In its early days, however unhappy she might have been, the prudent thing had been to make the best of it, since there was no way of knowing how long Sulla would reign as dictator. Julia had adapted quickly to her new circumstances; like her brother, she was a survivor, thought Lucius bitterly. Lucius, too, had adapted, in his own fashion. Simply to keep from going mad, early on he had banished from his thoughts any notion that Julia might someday divorce Pedius and remarry him. After Sulla’s death, the notion occasionally entered his thoughts, especially when his loneliness was most acute. But the act of submitting to Sulla had robbed him of his dignity as a Roman; without dignity, he had neither the authority nor the will to take back what had been his. It was useless to blame the gods, or Gaius, or even Sulla. A man must endure his own fate.
A door slave admitted him to Pedius’s house. Looking surprised and not a little wary, Julia met him in a room off the garden where a brazier was blazing and shutters had been closed to keep out the cold.
The sight of her was like a knife in his heart. Even through the loose folds of her stola he could see that she was pregnant. She saw him staring at her belly, and lowered her eyes.
The phlegm rattled in his chest. He fought against the need to cough. “I came because I heard the news about your brother.”
Julia drew a sharp breath. “What have you heard?”
“That he was kidnapped by pirates.”
“And?”
“Only that.”
Julia wrinkled her brow. This was old news. He had alarmed her by making her think he knew something she did not, and now she was peeved at him.
“If there’s anything I can do…,” he said lamely.
“That’s kind of you, Lucius, but Quintus and I managed to raise the ransom. It was sent some time ago. All we can do now is wait.”
“I see.”
A faint smile lit Julia’s lips. “His captors must be illiterate. If they had read what Gaius says about them in his letters, they’d never have allowed him to send them.”
“His letters?”
“That’s how we found out about his situation. ‘Dear sister, I am held captive,’ he wrote-ever so matter-of-factly! ‘Could you be so kind as to raise a bit of ransom for me?’ Then he went on to write the most scathing insults about his captors, how uncouth they are, how stupid. To hear Gaius tell it, he’s lording it over them-ordering them about, demanding decent food and more comfortable sleeping quarters, even trying to teach them some manners. ‘One must use a tone of authority with such creatures, as one does with a dog.’ As if the whole experience is simply a learning exercise for him-the proper way to handle a pirate crew!” She lowered her eyes. “Of course, his bravado may be an attempt to reassure me and to keep up his own spirits. These men are thieves and murderers, after all. The things they do to people…the terrible stories one hears…”
Julia trembled and her voice broke. It was all Lucius could do not to rush to her and take her in his arms. He resisted the impulse because he had no right to do so, and because he could not bear it if she pushed him away.
“Gaius is a survivor,” said Lucius; like his sister, he thought. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.” He coughed into his sleeve.
“Lucius, you’re unwell.”
“It sounds worse than it is. I should go home now. I merely came to offer…” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I came.”
Julia gazed into the flames of the brazier. “Did you want to see…?”
“Probably it’s best if I don’t.”
“He’s growing up very fast. Only six, and able to read already! He knows about his uncle. He has bad dreams about pirates. He looks just like you.”
Lucius felt a great weight on his chest, as if a stone were crushing him. It had been a mistake to come. As he was turning to leave, a slave rushed into the room. The man clutched a scrap of parchment, tightly rolled and tied and sealed with wax. When Julia saw it, her eyes grew wide.
“Is it-?
“Yes, mistress. From your brother!”
Julia snatched the letter and unrolled it. She scanned the contents, then began to weep. Lucius braced himself, thinking it must be bad news. Then Julia threw back her head and laughed.
“He’s free! Gaius is alive and well and free! Oh, this is wonderful! Lucius, you must listen to this: ‘Dear sister, for forty days I was held captive against my will. Thanks to the ransom you sent, I was given my freedom. The experience was most disagreeable, but left me little the worse for wear; have no anxieties about my well-being. I cannot say the same about my captors. As soon as I was freed, I set about organizing a party to hunt down the pirates. They provided little sport; the simple-minded fools were eager to spend their ill-gotten gains and headed for the nearest port with a tavern and a brothel. We captured them easily, and recovered a considerable part of the ransom; I shall return as much as I can to you now, and the balance later. As for the pirates, we set up crosses on a hillside visible to all passing ships and crucified them. During my captivity, I warned them that I would see them come to a bad end, and so I did. I watched them die, one by one. By all means, spread this news to everyone in Roma. Between you and me, I am quite proud of how this all turned out. Justice was done and Roman dignity was upheld. The episode shall make a splendid campaign story when it comes time for me to begin the Course of Honor.’”
Julia laughed. “Dear Gaius-always with an eye to the future! I think he shall be consul someday, don’t you?”
Lucius’s mouth was dry. His chest ached from coughing. “Perhaps he’ll be the next Sulla,” he said.
“Lucius! What a terrible thing to say.”
“Or perhaps the next Gracchus-except that your brother will probably succeed where the Gracchi failed.”
Before Julia could respond to this, their son came running into the room. The boy’s elderly Greek tutor followed, looking flustered. “Mistress, I couldn’t stop him. Word’s spread through the house that you’ve received a letter from your brother. Little Lucius wants to know-”
“Where is Uncle Gaius?” shouted the boy. Lucius noticed that he was wearing the fascinum of his ancestors. The sight of the amulet both pleased and pained him. “Where is Uncle Gaius? Do the pirates still have him?”
Julia took the boy’s face in her hand. “No, they don’t! Brave Uncle Gaius escaped from the pirates.”
“He escaped?”
“Yes, indeed. And then do you know what he did? He hunted them down, and he killed them.”
“All the pirates?”
“Yes, every one! Uncle Gaius nailed them to crosses, and gave them the terrible deaths they deserved. Those awful pirates will never bother anyone ever again.”
“Because Uncle Gaius killed them!”
“That’s right. So you must have no more bad dreams about them. Now, there’s someone here to whom you must say hello.”
Julia looked up, but Lucius had disappeared.
Out in the street, Lucius coughed violently. His breath formed streams of mist in the cold air. He walked quickly, aimlessly, his thoughts a muddle; his slave had to hurry to keep up with him. His eyes welled with tears. The tears felt hot running down his cheeks. They blurred his vision. He did not see the patch of ice on the paving stones ahead of him. The slave saw, and shouted a warning, but too late.
Lucius stepped on the ice. Limbs flailing, he fell backward. He struck his head on a stone. He shuddered and twitched, then lay very still. Blood ran from his skull.
Seeing the empty look in his master’s wide-open eyes and the peculiar way his neck was twisted, the slave let out a scream, but there was nothing to be done. Lucius was dead.
CAESAR’S HEIR
44 B.C.
It was the Ides of Februarius. Since the time of King Romulus, this was the day set aside for the ritual called the Lupercalia.
The origin of the Lupercalia-the boisterous occasion when young Romulus and
Remus and their friend Potitius ran about the hills of Roma naked with their faces disguised by wolfskins-was long forgotten, as were the origins of many Roman holidays. But above all else, the Romans honored the traditions that had been handed down by their ancestors. Paying scrupulous attention to the most minute details, they continued to observe many arcane rituals, sacrifices, feasts, holidays, and propitiations to the gods, long after the origins of these rites were lost.
The Roman calendar was filled with such enigmatic observances, and numerous priesthoods had been established to maintain them. Because religion determined, or at least justified, the actions of the state, senatorial committees studied lists of precedents to determine the days when certain legislative procedures could and could not be performed.
Why did the Romans adhere so faithfully to tradition? There was sound reasoning behind such devotion. The ancestors had performed certain rituals, and in return had been favored by the gods above all other people. It only made sense that living Romans, the inheritors of their predecessors’ greatness, should continue to perform those rituals precisely as handed down to them, whether they understood them or not. To do otherwise was to tempt the Fates. This logic was the bedrock of Roman conservatism.
And so, as their ancestors had done for many hundreds of years, on the day of the Lupercalia the magistrates of the city, along with the youths of noble families, stripped naked and ran through the streets of the city. They carried thongs of goat hide and cracked them in the air like whips. Young women who were pregnant or desired to become so would purposely run toward them and offer their hands to be slapped by the thongs, believing that this act would magically enhance their fertility and grant them an easy birth. Where this belief came from, no one knew, but it was part of the great compendium of beliefs that had come down to them and thus was worthy of observance.
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