Roma

by Steven Saylor

  “Well,” said Julia, seeking to diffuse the tension in the room, “let us pray you never have to face such a dreadful choice. May your marriage to Cornelia be long and fruitful!” She smiled wanly. “When I think of a good marriage, I think of our parents, don’t you, Gaius? They always seemed so happy together. If only the gods had not taken father so swiftly, so suddenly…”

  Julia and Gaius had lost their father three years before. To all appearance, the elder Gaius had been a healthy, vigorous man in the prime of life, but one day, while putting on his shoes, he gave a lurch and fell over dead. His own father had also died young, in a similarly sudden fashion. The siblings had felt his loss deeply, and had grown even closer in the years since he died.

  Gaius, seeing the look of sadness on his sister’s face, leaned toward her and gently touched her shoulder.

  Suddenly, there came a noise from the vestibule, so loud that all three of them gave a start and leaped to their feet. Someone was not merely banging at the door, but was trying to break it down. There was a snap of splintering wood and the shriek of hinges giving way.

  Gaius turned to flee, but managed only a few steps. He was too weak to run. He swayed and would have fallen had Julia not rushed to his side.

  A gang of armed men barged into the room. Lucius blanched when he recognized their leader: Cornelius Phagites.

  Phagites smiled, showing the gap between his crooked teeth. “Ah, there’s the very one I’m looking for—young Caesar!”

  Julia stood before Gaius, like a mother protecting her young. Though his knees trembled, Lucius stepped up to Phagites, who was much taller, and raised his chin high.

  “You’ve made a mistake. This is my wife’s brother, Gaius Julius Caesar. His name is not on the proscription lists.”

  Phagites laughed. “‘Name isn’t on the list!’” he said mockingly. “How often have we heard that one?”

  “It’s true! I checked the new lists myself, this afternoon. You saw me when I was coming back from the Forum. Don’t you remember?”

  Phagites squinted at him. “Well…if his name’s not on the list yet, it can always be added later,” he said, but in his voice there was a sliver of doubt. Lucius did his best to take advantage of it.

  “Taking men on the list is one thing, Phagites. Taking men who aren’t on the list is another. Sooner or later, by his own promise, Lucius Cornelius Sulla will resign his dictatorship. He’s granted himself immunity from prosecution for life, but I doubt that he’s given that sort of protection to you. Well, has he?”

  Phagites frowned. “No.”

  “Which means that some day there will be an accounting of…of mistakes that were made. This is such a mistake, Phagites. Gaius Julius Caesar is not on the list. He’s a citizen with full rights, not an enemy of the state. You have no right to harm him.”

  Phagites turned to one of his underlings, who produced a scrap of parchment, and together they pored over it for a moment, whispering and sniping at one another. At last Phagites swaggered back. He smirked and looked down his nose at Lucius. “Just how much are you willing to pay me to make sure I don’t make any…mistakes?”

  Lucius bit his lip. He thought for a long moment, then whispered a sum.

  Phagites laughed. “I don’t blame you for whispering! You ought to be ashamed, offering so little to make sure that nothing bad happens to your wife’s darling brother. Make it four times that amount, and I’ll consider your offer.”

  Lucius swallowed a lump in his throat. “Very well.”

  Phagites nodded. “That’s more like it. Now, all you have to do is beg me to take the money, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “What!”

  “Beg me. I have to have some sport tonight, don’t I? Go down on your knees, citizen, and beg me to accept your offering.”

  Lucius glanced at Julia, who averted her face. Gaius seemed to have been drained of his last ounce of strength by the sudden panic, and was hardly able to stand. Lucius dropped to his knees. “I implore you, Cornelius Phagites, take the money I offer, and leave us in peace!”

  Phagites laughed. He mussed Lucius’s hair. “Much better, little man! Very well, go fetch my money. But you’re striking a fool’s bargain. Your brother-in-law will be dead before the next Ides. Oh, I’ll take your money now, and let young Caesar keep his head; and later, when I do take his head, I’ll get a second payment from Sulla. I shall be paid twice for the same head—on his shoulders, and off!”

  Lucius brought the money. Phagites and his men left without another word. Julia was too distraught to speak. Gaius staggered to his dining couch and collapsed on it.

  Lucius felt Gaius’s forehead. The young man was again burning with fever.

  Despite Gaius’s illness, later that night Lucius and Julia summoned a litter and took him to another hiding place. If Phagites had found Gaius, so might someone else. The fact that his name was not yet among the proscribed clearly was no guarantee of safety.

  In the days and nights that followed, despite his lingering ague, Gaius moved from one refuge to another. Meanwhile, the elders of the Julii entered into frantic negotiations with members of Sulla’s inner circle, trying to remove Gaius from danger. Lucius met with the Julii daily, hoping for good news.

  The proscriptions continued. New names were added daily. Lucius began to fear that he himself might be added to the lists. He made sure that the door broken down by Phagites and his men was repaired and made stronger than before. He kept a dagger on his person at all times. He purchased a quick-acting poison from a dubious character on the waterfront, and gave it to Julia for safekeeping. Death by beheading would be grisly but swift, he told himself, but he shuddered to think of what might be done to Julia once he was gone. He wanted her to have a means of quick escape. What times they lived in, that a man should have to plan for such contingencies!

  One day a visitor came to the house, attended by many bodyguards. He was a beautiful young man with a mane of golden hair. Lucius recognized him: Chrysogonus, an actor who had become one of Sulla’s favorites. Ever since he was young, Sulla had had a weakness for actors, and especially for blonds. Chrysogonus was dressed in a tunic made of a sumptuous green fabric embroidered with silver stitching. The garment must have cost a fortune, Lucius thought. He wondered who had died so that Sulla’s catamite could wear it.

  “I won’t stay long,” said Chrysogonus, gazing about the vestibule with a practiced eye, as if scrutinizing a property that might someday be his. “My friend Felix sends you a message.”

  Lucius could barely stifle his disgust at hearing a former slave and actor speak so familiarly of the most powerful man in Roma. Chrysogonus, sensing his disdain, fixed him with a cold stare. Lucius’s mouth turned dry. “What does Sulla say?”

  “Your wife’s brother will be spared—”

  “You’re certain?” Julia, who had remained out of sight, rushed to Lucius’s side.

  “If you will allow me to finish?” Chrysogonus raised an eyebrow. “Gaius Julius Caesar will be spared—but only on the condition that my friend Felix is able to meet with him face to face.”

  “So that he can see the boy beheaded with his own eyes?” snapped Lucius.

  Chrysogonus gave him a baleful look. “The dictator will call on you tonight. If he sincerely wishes to receive the dictator’s pardon, the young Caesar will be here.” With a theatrical flair, Chrysogonus spun about on his heel and departed, surrounded by his bodyguards.

  A festive retinue appeared in the street outside Lucius’s house that night. Chrysogonus was among them, along with several other actors and mimes, male and female; they laughed and joked among themselves, as if out for a carefree stroll by torchlight. The bodyguards looked more like trouble-loving street toughs than staid, sober lictors. Sobriety was in short supply. Several members of the party were obviously drunk.

  Perusing the group through the peephole of his front door, Lucius shook his head.

  Sulla himself arrived in a curtained red litter carried by
a phalanx of burly slaves. One of them dropped to his hands and knees so that the dictator could use his back as a step to descend to the street. Seeing him, Lucius sucked in a breath, appalled that the fate of the Republic and its citizens should rest in the hands of such a decayed specimen. Once strappingly muscular, the very image of a dashing Roman general, Sulla had grown jowly and fat. His complexion had always been splotchy—“mulberries covered with oatmeal,” as some described it—but now a skein of spidery red veins had been added to his blemishes.

  The dictator banged his fist against the door. Lucius stepped back and nodded to a slave to open it, then stood straight to greet his visitor. Sulla stepped past him and entered the vestibule without a word, alone, bringing not a single bodyguard with him. Did he think himself invulnerable? He had named himself Felix, after all.

  Gaius awaited him in the atrium. Physically, the young man could not have presented a greater contrast to the dictator. Naturally slender, with a long face, Gaius had been rendered even leaner by his illness, and his bright eyes glittered with fever. Despite his weakness, his bearing was fearless. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin held high. For the occasion he wore a toga borrowed from Lucius. Even with Julia’s nips and tucks, it hung on him loosely.

  While Lucius stood to one side, Sulla gave Gaius a long, appraising look. He stepped closer.

  “So this is young Caesar,” he finally said. “I stare, and you stare back at me. I frown, but you do not blanch. Who do you think you are, young man?”

  “I am Gaius Julius Caesar. I am the son of my father, who was praetor. I am the scion of the Julii, an ancient patrician house. We trace our lineage back to Venus herself.”

  “Maybe so. But when I look at you, young man, I see another Marius.”

  Lucius held his breath. His heart pounded in his chest. Did Sulla intend to kill Gaius with his bare hands?

  The dictator laughed. “Nonetheless, I have decided to spare you, and so I shall—as long as my conditions are met.”

  Lucius stepped forward. “Dictator, you requested that young Caesar should meet you face and face, and here he is. What more…?”

  “First and foremost,” said Sulla, speaking to Gaius, “you must divorce your wife, Cornelia. And then—”

  “Never.” Gaius stood still. His face showed no emotion, but his voice was adamant.

  Sulla raised an eyebrow. His fleshy forehead was creased with furrows. “I repeat: You must divorce Cornelia. In your marriage, the houses of my enemies Marius and Cinna are combined. I cannot have such a union—”

  “I refuse.”

  “You what?”

  “I refuse. Even a dictator cannot make such a demand of a Roman citizen.”

  Sulla stared at him blankly. His florid complexion became even redder. He nodded slowly. “I see.”

  Lucius braced himself. He felt for the dagger under his toga, and wondered if he would have the courage to use it. What was Gaius thinking, to speak to Sulla in such a way? It had to be the fever, making him delirious.

  And then, Sulla laughed, long and loudly.

  At last he stopped laughing, and spoke in a tone of wonderment. “Is it Marius I see in you, young man—or myself? I wonder! Very well, then, you may keep your head and your wife. But in return for this favor, it seems only fair that some member of your family must remarry to please me.” Sulla glanced over his shoulder. For the first time since entering the house, he looked directly at Lucius. “What about you?”

  “I, Dictator?”

  “Yes, you. What are you to this young man? His brother-in-law?”

  “Yes, Dictator.”

  “And where is the boy’s sister, your wife? I suppose she’s skulking nearby; they usually are. Out with you, woman! Step into the atrium where I can see you.”

  Julia emerged from behind a corner, looking very meek.

  “Why, she’s the very image of her brother! Very well, she can take her brother’s place. You and this fellow here—what’s your name, again?”

  “Lucius Pinarius, Dictator.”

  “You and Lucius Pinarius shall divorce at once. Since it’s a patrician marriage, certain formalities must be observed. I give you two days, no more. Do you both understand?”

  “Dictator, please,” whispered Lucius. “I beg you—”

  “After your marriage is dissolved, I don’t care what you do, Pinarius. But you, Julia, must remarry at once. You’re the niece of Marius, just as your brother is his nephew, and I must keep a watch on all you Julii. But whom shall you marry? Let me think.” He tapped his forehead, then snapped his fingers. “Quintus Pedius! Yes, just the fellow.”

  “I don’t even know him!” said Julia. She was on the verge of tears.

  “Well, soon you shall know him very well indeed!” Sulla smiled broadly. “There, it’s settled. Young Caesar’s name will be removed from the upcoming proscription lists. Even so, I’d advise you to get out of town for a while; accidents happen. Also, young Caesar may keep his wife. Meanwhile, you two shall divorce—”

  “Dictator—”

  “Please, call me Felix.”

  “Lucius Cornelius Sulla—Felix—I beg you to reconsider. My wife and I are deeply devoted to one another. Our marriage is a—” He wanted to declare that their marriage was a love match, but it seemed obscene to speak of love in front of Sulla. “We have a young son. He’s still suckling at his mother’s breast—”

  Sulla shrugged. “Then let the child stay with his mother. You shall give up all claims to him. Let Quintus Pedius adopt him.”

  Lucius gaped, too stunned to speak. Julia began to sob.

  Gaius stepped forward, unsteady on his feet. He was the color of chalk. “Dictator, I see that I was wrong to oppose you. I shall do as you asked. I shall divorce Cornelia—”

  “You shall do no such thing!”

  “Dictator, it was never my intention—”

  “Your intentions mean nothing here. My will prevails. Your life is spared. Your marriage is preserved. But your sister and her husband will divorce each other.” He turned to Lucius. “Either that, or I shall see your name in the proscription lists, Pinarius, and your head on a stake!”

  With a dramatic flourish worthy of Chrysogonus, Sulla turned about and left the house. His entourage welcomed him back with drunken cheers and laughter. A slave quickly closed the door to shut out the raucous noises.

  Lucius stared at the floor. “After all our efforts…all our…sacrifices…our sleepless nights…the bribe I paid to Phagites…the humiliation…”

  “Brother-in-law,” whispered Gaius, “I never imagined—”

  “Don’t call me that! I’m your brother-in-law no longer!”

  From the nursery, the baby began to wail. Julia dropped to her knees, weeping.

  Lucius glared at Gaius. “It’s Julia and I who must now pay the price for your pride. To save your neck and preserve your precious dignity, we must give up everything. Everything!”

  Gaius opened his mouth, but could find nothing to say.

  “You owe us for this!” cried Lucius, pointing his finger at Gaius. “Never forget! Never forget the debt you owe to my son, and to his sons, for as long as you live!”

  Gradually, as thousands died or fled into exile, the frenzied pace of Sulla’s proscriptions subsided, but the dictator continued to rule Roma with an iron grip.

  His divorce left Lucius Pinarius a bitter and broken man. No one blamed him for his misfortune. Friends, many of whom had suffered terribly themselves, did their best to comfort him, and even praised his sacrifice. “You did what you had to, to save another man’s life,” they said. “You did it for the sake of your son and your wife; had you disobeyed, Sulla would have proscribed you, and your family would have been left destitute.”

  But no argument could alleviate Lucius’s anguish and regret. To save his family, he had lost his family. To keep his head, he had surrendered his dignity.

  Julia’s new husband, Quintus Pedius, did nothing to bar Lucius from seeing
his son, or Julia for that matter, but Lucius was ashamed to face them. To bow before a dictator reduced a man to a status hardly better than a slave; a Roman without honor was not a Roman at all.

  It would be best, he decided, if his loved ones considered him a dead man. Let Julia be as a widow who had remarried. Let his son be as an orphan. How much better it would have been if Lucius had died. If only he had caught the quartan ague from Gaius and died of that!

  So, like a dead man, he prematurely bequeathed to his son a precious heirloom: the golden fascinum which had been in the family for untold generations. The amulet was very worn, its shape hardly recognizable. Nonetheless, Lucius sent it to Julia with a prayer that it might protect their son from such a disaster as had overtaken his father. The talisman was passed to the next generation.

  Having no desire to remarry, despondent and forlorn, he lived alone in his house on the Palatine.

  As for Gaius, he took the advice of Sulla and left Roma as soon as he was able to travel. He accepted a military posting on the Aegean coast, serving on the staff of the praetor Minucius Thermus.

  Lucius thought about Gaius as little as possible, but one day, while crossing the Forum, he passed a group of men conversing and overheard a stranger mention Gaius’s name. Lucius stopped to listen.

  “Yes, Gaius Julius Caesar,” the man repeated, “the one whose father dropped dead a couple of years ago.”

  “Poor young fellow! I suppose King Nicomedes makes a dashing father figure, but no Roman should ever bend over to pleasure another man, not even a king.”