Fortune's Favorites

by Colleen McCullough

  "I ought to have a foot in both camps," he had said to himself when contemplating doing this. "I am the Dictator."

  The day after, he published an addendum containing only one name. The name of the new Pontifex Maximus. Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius the Piglet. Stammerer extraordinary.

  The people of Rome were beside themselves with horror when they saw that frightful name upon the rostra and the Regia-the new Pontifex Maximus was Metellus Pius1? How could that be? What was wrong with Sulla? Had he gone quite mad?

  A shivering deputation came to see him at Ahenobarbus's house, its members consisting of priests and augurs, including Metellus Pius himself. For obvious reasons he was not the deputation's Spokesman; his tongue stumbled so these days that no one was willing to stand there shifting from one foot to the other while the Piglet strove to articulate his thoughts. The spokesman was Catulus.

  "Lucius Cornelius, why?” wailed Catulus. "Are we to have no say about this?"

  "I duh-duh-duh-don't wuh-wuh-wuh-wan? the juh-juh-job!" the Piglet stuttered painfully, eyes rolling, hands working.

  "Lucius Cornelius, you can't!" Vatia cried.

  "It's impossible!" shouted son-in-law Mamercus.

  Sulla let them run down before he answered, no flicker of emotion on his face or in his eyes; it was no part of his joke ever to let them see that it was a joke. They must always think him earnest, serious. For he was. He was! Jupiter had come to him in a dream last night and told him how much he appreciated this wonderful, perfect joke.

  They ran down. An apprehensive silence fell, save for the soft sound of the Piglet's weeping.

  "Actually," said Lucius Cornelius Sulla in conversational tones, "as the Dictator I can do anything I want. But that is not the point. The point is that I dreamed Jupiter Optimus Maximus came to me and asked specifically for Quintus Caecilius as his Pontifex Maximus. When I woke I took the omens, and they were very propitious. On the way to the Forum to pin my two pieces of parchment up on the rostra and the Regia, I saw fifteen eagles flying from left to right across the Capitol. No owl hooted, no lightning flashed."

  The deputation looked into Sulla's face, then at the floor. He was serious. So, it seemed, was Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

  "But no ritual can contain a mistake!" said Vatia. "No gesture, no action, no word can be wrong! The moment something is performed or said wrongly, the whole ceremony has to start all over again!"

  "I am aware of that," said Sulla gently.

  "Lucius Cornelius, surely you can see!" cried Catulus. "Pius stutters and stammers his way through every statement he makes! So whenever he acts as Pontifex Maximus, we are going to be there forever!''

  "I see it with crystal clarity," said Sulla with great seriousness. "Remember, I too will be there forever." He shrugged. "What can I say, except that perhaps this is some extra sacrifice the Great God requires of us because we haven't acquitted ourselves as we ought in matters pertaining to our gods?" He turned to Metellus Pius to take one of the spasming hands in both his own. “Of course, Piglet dear, you can refuse. There is nothing in our religious laws to say you can't."

  The Piglet used his free hand to pick up a fold of toga and employ it to wipe his eyes and nose. He drew in a breath and said, "I will do it, Lucius Cornelius, if the Great God requires it of muh-muh-me."

  “There, you see?'' asked Sulla, patting the hand he held. "You almost got it out! Practice, Piglet dear! Practice!"

  The first paroxysm of laughter was welling dangerously close to eruption; Sulla got rid of the deputation in a hurry and bolted to his study, where he shut himself in. His knees gave way; he collapsed onto a couch, wrapped his arms round his body and howled, the tears of mirth pouring down his face.

  When he couldn't breathe properly he rolled onto the floor and lay there shrieking and gasping with his legs kicking in the air, hurting so much he thought he might die. But still he laughed, secure in the knowledge that the omens had indeed been propitious. And for the rest of that day, whenever the Piglet's expression of noble self-sacrifice flashed before his mind's eye, he doubled over in a fresh paroxysm; so too did he laugh again whenever he remembered the look on Catulus's face, and Vatia's, and his son-in-law's. Wonderful, wonderful! Perfect justice, this Jupiterian joke. Everyone had received exactly what everyone deserved. Including Lucius Cornelius Sulla.

  On the Ides of December some sixty men-members of the minor as well as the major priestly colleges-tried to squash into the temple of Jupiter Feretrius.

  "We have paid our respects to the god," said Sulla. "I do not think he will mind if we seek the open air."

  He sat himself on the low wall which fenced off the old Asylum from the parklike areas of ground swelling easily up on either side to the twin humps of Capitol and Arx, and gestured to the rest to sit on the grass.

  That, thought the desperately unhappy Piglet, was one of the oddest things about Sulla: he could invest small things with huge dignity, then-as now-reduce huge things to complete informality. To the Capitoline visitors and tourists-to the men and women who arrived panting at the top of the Asylum steps or the Gemonian steps, taking a shortcut between Forum Romanum and Campus Martius-they must look like a strolling philosopher and his pupils, or an old country daddy with all his brothers, nephews, sons, cousins,

  "What have you to report, Gaius Aurelius?" asked Sulla of Cotta, who sat in the middle of the front row.

  “First of all, that this task was very difficult for me, Lucius Cornelius," Cotta replied. "You are aware, I suppose, that young Caesar the flamen Dialis is my nephew?''

  "As indeed he is also my nephew, though by marriage rather than blood," said the Dictator steadily.

  "Then I must ask you another question. Do you intend to proscribe the Caesars?''

  Without volition Sulla thought of Aurelia, and shook his head emphatically. "No, Cotta, I do not. The Caesars who were my brothers-in-law so many years ago are both dead. They never really committed any crimes against the State, for all they were Marius's men. There were reasons for that. Marius had helped the family financially, the tie was an obligatory gratitude. The widow of old Gaius Marius is the boy's blood aunt, and her sister was my first wife."

  "But you have proscribed both Marius's and Cinna's families."

  "That I have."

  "Thank you," said Cotta, looking relieved. He cleared his throat. "Young Caesar was but thirteen years old when he was solemnly and properly consecrated as the priest of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. He fulfilled all the criteria save one: he was a patrician with both parents still living, but he was not married to a patrician woman with both parents still living. However, Marius found him a bride, to whom he was married before the ceremonies of inauguration and consecration. The bride was Cinna's younger daughter."

  "How old was she?" Sulla asked, snapping his fingers at his servant, who promptly handed him a peasant's wide-brimmed straw hat. Having adjusted it comfortably, he looked out slyly from under it, truly an old country daddy.

  "She was seven."

  "I see. A literal marriage of children. Faugh! Cinna was hungry, wasn't he?"

  "Quite so," said Cotta uncomfortably. "Anyway, the boy did not take kindly to his flaminate. He insisted that until he put on the toga of manhood he would pursue the customary activities of a noble Roman youth. So he went to the Campus Martius and there did his military exercises. He fenced, shot arrows, cast spears-and revealed a talent for whatever he was called upon to do. I am told he used to do something remarkable-he would ride a very fleet horse at the full gallop with both hands behind his back-and no saddle! The old fellows of the Campus Martius remember him well and deem his flaminate a shame in view of his natural aptitude for soldiering. For his other behavior, my source is his mother-my half sister, Aurelia. According to her, he did not adhere to the stipulated diet, he pared his nails with an iron knife, had his hair cut with an iron razor, and wore knots and buckles."

  "What happened when he donned the toga virilis?"'

  "He changed r
adically," said Cotta, considerable surprise in his voice. "The rebellion - if indeed it had been rebellion - ceased. He had always performed his religious duties with scrupulous care, but then he put on his apex and laena permanently, and adhered to all the prohibitions. His mother says he liked his role no better, but had become reconciled."

  "I see." Sulla kicked his heels softly against the wall, then said, "It begins to sound quite satisfactory, Cotta. What conclusion have you come to about him and his flaminate?"

  Cotta frowned. “There is one difficulty. Did we have the full set of prophetic books available to us, we might have been able to elucidate the matter. But we do not, of course. So we have found it impossible to form a conclusive opinion. There appears to be no doubt that the boy is legally the flamen Dialis, but we are not so sure from the religious viewpoint."

  "Why?"

  "It all hinges upon the civic status of Caesar's wife. Cinnilla, they call her. Now twelve years of age. Of one thing we are absolutely positive - the flaminate Dialis is a dual entity which involves wife as much as it does husband. She has her religious title of flaminica Dialis, she is under the same taboos, and she has her own religious duties. If she does not fulfill the religious criteria, then the whole flaminate is in doubt. And we have come to the conclusion that she does not fulfill the religious criteria, Lucius Cornelius."

  "Really? How have you reached that conclusion, Cotta?" Sulla kicked the wall harder, thought of something else. "Has the marriage been consummated?"

  "No, it has not. The child Cinnilla has lived with my sister and my sister's family since she married young Caesar. And my sister is a very proper Roman noblewoman," said Cotta.

  Sulla smiled briefly. "I know she's proper," he said.

  "Yes, well ..." Cotta shifted uneasily, remembering the debates which had raged in the Cotta household about the nature of the friendship between Aurelia and Sulla; he was also aware that he was about to criticize one of Sulla's new proscription laws. But in he plunged bravely, determined to get it over and done with. “We think Caesar is the flamen Dialis, but that his wife is not the flaminica. At least, that is how we have interpreted your laws of proscription, which, in the matter of under-age children of the proscribed, do not make it clear whether these children are subject to the lex Minicia. Cinna's son was of age when his father was proscribed, therefore his citizenship was not in question. But what about the citizen status of under-age children, especially girls? Does your law intend judgment under the lex Minicia, or-as with conviction and exile by a court-does the father's loss of citizenship extend only to himself? That is what we had to decide. And given the severity of your laws of proscription in relation to the rights of children and other heirs, we came to the conclusion that the lex Minicia de liberis does apply."

  "Piglet dear, what do you have to say?" asked the Dictator demurely, entirely ignoring the implication of a legislative cloudiness. "Take your time, take your time! I have nothing else to do today."

  Metellus Pius flushed. "As Gaius Cotta says, the law of a child's citizen status does apply. When one parent is not a Roman citizen, the child cannot be a Roman citizen. So Caesar's wife is not a Roman citizen and cannot therefore be the flaminica Dialis under religious law."

  "Brilliant, brilliant! You got that out without a single mistake, Piglet!" Drum, drum went Sulla's heels. "So it is all my fault, eh? I left a law up to interpretation instead of spelling every detail out."

  Cotta drew a deep breath. "Yes," he said heroically.

  "That is all very true, Lucius Cornelius," said Vatia, adding his mite. "However, we are fully aware that our interpretation may be wrong. We respectfully ask for your direction."

  "Well," said Sulla, sliding off the wall, "it seems to me that the best way out of this dilemma is to have Caesar find a new flaminica. Though he must have been married confarreatio, in the eyes of both civil and religious law a divorce is possible. It is my opinion that Caesar must divorce Cinna's daughter, who is not acceptable to the Great God as his flaminica.”

  "An annulment, surely!" said Cotta.

  "A divorce," said Sulla firmly. "Though all and sundry may swear that the marriage is not consummated-and though we could have the Vestals examine the girl's hymen-we are dealing with Jupiter Best and Greatest. You have pointed out to me that my laws are open to interpretation. In fact, you have gone so far as to interpret them-without coming to consult with me before making your decision. Therein lies your mistake. You should have consulted me. But since you did not, you must now live with the consequences. A diffarreatio divorce."

  Cotta winced. "Diffarreatio is a dreadful business!"

  "I weep to see your pain, Cotta."

  "Then I shall inform the boy," said Cotta, mouth set.

  Sulla put out his hand. "No!" he said, quite sharply. "Say nothing to the boy, nothing at all! Just tell him to come to my house tomorrow before the dinner hour. I prefer to tell him myself, is that clear?"

  "And so," said Cotta to Caesar and Aurelia a short time later, "you must see Sulla, nephew."

  Both Caesar and his mother were looking strained, but saw the visitor to the door without comment. After her brother had gone Aurelia followed her son into his study.

  "Do sit, Mater," he said to her gently.

  She sat, but on the edge of the chair. "I don't like it," she said. “Why should he want to see you in person?''

  "You heard Uncle Gaius. He's starting to reform the religious orders, "and he wants to see me as flamen Dialis.''

  "I do not believe that," said Aurelia stubbornly.

  Worried, Caesar put his chin on his right hand and looked at his mother searchingly. His concern was not for himself; he could cope with whatever was to come, he knew that. No, it was for her, and for all the other women of his family.

  The tragedy had marched on inexorably from the time of the conference Young Marius had called to discuss his seeking the consulship, through the season of artificially induced joy and confidence, through the downslide of the terrible winter, to the yawning pit which had been the defeat at Sacriportus. Of Young Marius they had seen practically nothing once he had become consul, and that included his mother and his wife. A mistress had come on the scene, a beautiful Roman woman of knightly forebears named Praecia, and she monopolized every spare moment Young Marius could find. Rich enough to be financially independent, she was at the time she caught Young Marius in her toils already thirty-seven years old, and not of a mind for marriage. There had been a marriage in her eighteenth year, but only to obey her father, who had died shortly thereafter; Praecia had promptly embarked upon a series of lovers, and her husband had divorced her. Which suited her very well. She settled to the kind of life she most liked, mistress of her own establishment as well as mistress to some interesting nobleman who brought his friends, his problems and his political intrigues to her dining couch and bed, and thus enabled her to combine politics with passion-an irresistible combination to one of Praecia's leanings.

  Young Marius had been her biggest fish and she had grown quite fond of him, amused at his youthful posturings, fascinated by the power inherent in the name Gaius Marius, and pleased at the fact that the young senior consul preferred her to his mother, a Julia, and his wife, a Mucia. So she had thrown her large and tastefully decorated house open to all Young Marius's friends, and her bed to a small, select group who formed Young Marius's inner circle. Once Carbo (whom she loathed) had left for Ariminum, she became her paramour's chief adviser in all things, and fancied that it was she, not Young Marius, who actually ran Rome.

  So when the news came that Sulla was about to depart from Teanum Sidicinum, and Young Marius announced that it was more than time he left to join his troops at Ad Pictas, Praecia had toyed with the idea of becoming a camp follower, accompanying the young senior consul to the war. It had not come to pass; Young Marius found a typical solution to the problem she was becoming by leaving Rome after dark without telling her he was going. However, not to repine! Praecia shrugged, and looked
about for other game.

  All this had meant that neither his mother nor his wife had been given the opportunity to bid him farewell, to wish him the luck he would certainly need. He was gone. And he was never to come back. The news of Sacriportus had not spread through Rome before Brutus Damasippus (too much Carbo's man to esteem Praecia) had embarked upon his bloodbath. Among those who died was Quintus Mucius Scaevola Pontifex Maximus, the father of Young Marius's wife, and a good friend to Young Marius's mother.

  "My son did this," Julia had said to Aurelia when she came to see if there was anything she could do.

  "Nonsense!" Aurelia had answered warmly. "It was Brutus Damasippus, no one else."

  "I have seen the letter my son sent in his own writing from Sacriportus," Julia had said, drawing in her breath on something far worse than a sob. "He couldn't accept defeat without this paltry retaliation, and how can I expect my daughter-in-law to speak to me again?"

  Caesar had huddled himself in a far corner of the room and watched the faces of the women with stony concentration. How could her son have done this to Aunt Julia? Especially after what his mad old father had done at the end? She was caught inside a mass of sorrow like a fly in a chunk of amber, her beauty the greater because she was static, her pain all within and quite invisible. It didn't even show in her eyes.