2. The Grass Crown

by Colleen McCullough

  At almost the same moment as the news of the death of Scaurus Princeps Senatus flew around the city came the news that Sextus Julius Caesar had died of a chest inflammation while besieging Asculum Picentum. Having digested the contents of the letter from Sextus Caesar's legate, Gaius Baebius, Pompey Strabo made up his mind. As soon as the State funeral for Scaurus was over, he would proceed to Asculum Picentum himself. It was extremely rare for the Senate to vote State funds for a funeral, but even in times as hard as these it was unthinkable that Scaurus not be given a State funeral. The whole of Rome had adored him, and the whole of Rome turned out to pay him their last respects. Nothing could ever be the same again without Marcus Aemilius's bald pate reflecting the sun like a mirror, without Marcus Aemilius's beautiful green eyes keeping a close watch on Rome's highborn villains, without Marcus Aemilius's wit and humor and courage. Long would he be missed. To Marcus Tullius Cicero, the fact that he left a Rome draped in cypress branches was an omen; so too was he dead to all he held dear Forum and books, law and rhetoric. His mother was busy arranging tenants for the house on the Carinae, her boxes already packed for her return to Arpinum, though she did no packing for Cicero and was not there when the time came for him to bid her farewell. He slipped out into the street and let himself be tossed into the saddle of the horse his father had sent from the country, as the family did not possess the honor of the Public Horse. His belongings were bestowed upon a mule; what didn't fit had to be left behind. Pompey Strabo ran a thin army, didn't tolerate baggage-hindered staff. That Cicero knew this was thanks to his new friend Pompey, whom he met outside the city on the Via Lata an hour later. The weather was bitterly cold, the wind blustery, the icicles hanging from balconies and tree branches unmelted as Pompey Strabo's small staff began their journey north into the teeth of winter. Some of the general's army had been bivouacked upon the Campus Martius because they had marched in his triumph, and were already on the move ahead of his staff. The rest of Pompey Strabo's six legions waited for him outside Veii, not far from Rome. Here they camped overnight, and Cicero found himself sharing a tent with the other cadets attached to the general's staff, some eight young men aged from Pompey, the youngest at sixteen, through to Lucius Volumnius, the oldest at twenty-three. The day's journey had been neither time nor place to become acquainted with the other cadets, so Cicero faced this ordeal when they pitched camp. He had no idea how to erect a tent, nor what was required of him, and hung back miserably until Pompey thrust a cord into his hand and told him to hold on to it without moving. Looking back on that first evening in the cadets' tent from the vantage point of age and distance years later, what amazed Cicero was how deftly and inconspicuously Pompey helped him, let it be known without actually saying so that Cicero was his protégé, not to be tormented because of appearance or physical incompetence. The general's son was undeniably the tent boss but not because he was the general's son. Bookish or learned he was not, yet Pompey's intelligence was remarkable, and his self-confidence without a single flaw; he was a natural autocrat, impatient of restraint, intolerant of fools. Which might have been why he had conceived a liking for Cicero, never a fool, and in no position to apply restraints. "Your gear's not adequate," he said to Cicero, casting his eyes over the jumble of possessions Cicero had carted in from his mule. "No one told me what to bring," Cicero said, teeth chattering and face blue with cold. "Haven't you got a mother or a sister? They always know what to pack," said Pompey. "A mother, but no sister." He couldn't stop shivering. "My mother doesn't like me." "Have you no breeches? No mittens? No double-layered woolen tunics? No thick socks? No woolen caps?" "Only what's here. I didn't think. All that sort of thing is at home in Arpinum anyway." What seventeen-year-old boy ever does think of warm clothing? asked Cicero of himself all those years later, still able to feel the cheer that spread through him when Pompey, without asking anyone's permission, made everyone donate Cicero something warm. "Don't whine, you've got enough," Pompey said to the others. "Marcus Tullius may be an idiot in some respects, but he's also cleverer than the rest of us put together. And he's my friend. Just thank your lucky stars you've all got mothers and sisters who know what to pack. Volumnius, you don't need six pairs of socks, you never change them anyway! And hand over those mittens, Titus Pompeius. Aebutius, a tunic. Teideius, a tunic. Fundilius, a cap. Maianius, you've got so much you can give up one of everything. So can I, easily." The army struggled into the mountains through blizzards and feet of snow, a warmer Cicero tagging along helplessly, ignorant of what might happen if they encountered the enemy, or what he ought to do. As it happened, the encounter when it came was accidental and unexpected; they had just crossed the frozen river at Fulginum when Pompey Strabo's army became entangled with four raggle-taggle legions of Picentes coming over the ranges from southern Picenum, apparently en route to stir up trouble in Etruria. The engagement was a debacle. It did not involve Cicero personally because he was traveling in the rear with the baggage train, Young Pompey having decided he ought to keep an eye on the bulkier cadet possessions. This, Cicero was well aware, freed Pompey from concern about his welfare and whereabouts as they marched through enemy country. "Marvelous!" said Pompey as he cleaned his sword in the cadet tent that night. "We slaughtered them! When they wanted to surrender, my father laughed. So we drove them into the peaks without their baggage train such as it was. If they don't die of the cold, they'll soon starve." He held the blade up to the lamplight to make sure every part of it gleamed. "Couldn't we have taken them prisoner?" asked Cicero. "With my father in the general's tent?" Pompey laughed. "He doesn't believe in letting enemy live." Since he was not without courage, Cicero persisted. "But they're Italians, not a foreign enemy. Mightn't we need them for our legions later, after this war is over?" Pompey thought this over. "I agree we might, Marcus Tullius. But it's too late to worry about this lot now! My father was annoyed with them and when he is annoyed he gives no quarter to anyone." The blue eyes stared into Cicero's brown ones. "I shall be the same." It was months before Cicero ceased to dream of them, those Picentine farm workers, subsiding frozen into the snow, or scrabbling feverishly under oaks for acorns, all the food the mountains offered; just one more nightmarish aspect of war to one who found he loathed war. By the time that Pompey Strabo reached the Adriatic at Fanum Fortunae, Cicero had learned ways of making himself useful, and had even grown used to wearing a mail-shirt and a sword. In the cadet tent he kept house, did the cooking and cleaning up, and in the general's tent he took over the literate chores which Pompey Strabo's Picentine clerks and secretaries found beyond their limited talents reports to the Senate, letters to the Senate, accounts of battles and skirmishes. When Pompey Strabo perused Cicero's first effort, a letter to the urban praetor Asellio, he glared at the skinny lad with those eerie eyes of his trying to say something. "Not bad, Marcus Tullius. Maybe there's some reason for my son's attachment to you. Couldn't see what it was but he's always right, you know. That's why I let him have his way." "Thank you, Gnaeus Pompeius." The general swept a hand through the air, indicating a cluttered desk. "See what you can make of that, boy." They came finally to rest some miles outside Asculum Picentum; since the dead Sextus Caesar's army was still lying before the city, Pompey Strabo decided to put himself down farther away. Quite often the general and his son would march out to raid, taking however many troops they thought necessary, and staying away for some days. At such times the general would leave his younger brother, Sextus Pompey, in charge of the base, with Cicero left behind to supervise the ongoing paperwork. These periods of relative freedom should have been a joy to Cicero, but they were not. Young Pompey wasn't there to shield him, and Sextus Pompey despised him to the point of casual abuse cuffs across the ear, boots up the backside, a foot to trip him up as he hurried about. While the ground was still frozen hard and the spring thaw still a promise, the general and his son took a small force toward the coast in search of enemy troop movements. Shortly after dawn the next day as Cicero stood outside the command tent rubbing his so
re buttocks, a troop of Marsic cavalry rode into the camp as if they owned it. So calm and confident was their demeanor that no one ran to arms; the only Roman response came from Pompey Strabo's brother Sextus, who strolled forward and lifted a casual hand in greeting as the troop halted outside the command tent. "Publius Vettius Scato of the Marsi," said the leader, sliding off his horse. "Sextus Pompeius, brother of the general, in temporary command during the general's absence." Scato pulled a face. "That's a pity. I came to see if I could treat with Gnaeus Pompeius." "He'll be back, if you care to wait," said Sextus Pompey. "How long?" "Anywhere between three and six days." "Can you feed my men and horses?" "Certainly." It fell to Cicero, the only contubernalis left in the camp, to organize accommodation and provender for Scato and his troop; much to his surprise, the same men who had driven the Picentines into the mountains to freeze and starve now behaved toward the enemy in their midst with great hospitality, from Sextus Pompey down to the most insignificant noncombatant. I do not even begin to understand this phenomenon called war, thought Cicero as he watched Sextus Pompey and Scato walking together with what looked like great affection, or going off to hunt the wild pigs which winter had driven down in search of food. And when Pompey Strabo returned from his raiding expedition, he fell upon Scato's neck as if Scato was his dearest friend. The treating went on over a great feast; with wondering eyes Cicero witnessed the Pompeys as he imagined they behaved in the fastnesses of their great estates in northern Picenum huge boars roasting on spits, platters heaped high, everyone seated on benches at tables rather than reclining, servants scurrying with more wine than water. To a Roman of the Latin heartlands like Cicero, the spectacle in the command tent was barbarian. Not so did the men of Arpinum hold a feast, even a Gaius Marius. Of course it didn't occur to Cicero that an army camp giving a banquet for a hundred and more men could not run to couches or dainties. "You won't get inside Asculum in a hurry," said Scato. Pompey Strabo said nothing for a moment, too busy crunching through a slice of crisply bubbled pigskin; he finished, wiped his hands on his tunic, and grinned. "It makes no difference to me how long it takes," he said. "Sooner or later Asculum Picentum will fall. And I'll be there to make them wish they'd never laid a hand on a Roman praetor." "The provocation was great," said Scato easily. "Great or small makes no difference to me," said Pompey Strabo. "Vidacilius got in, I hear. The Asculans will be pushed to feed yet more mouths." "There are no Vidacilian mouths to feed in Asculum," said Scato in an odd voice. Pompey Strabo looked up, face greasy with pig. "Oh?" "Vidacilius went mad, as far as we can tell," said Scato, a more delicate eater than his host. Sensing a story, the whole tent fell silent to listen. "He appeared before Asculum with twenty thousand men not long before Sextus Julius died," said Scato, "apparently with the intention of acting in concert with the people inside the city. His idea was that when he attacked Sextus Julius, the Asculans were to issue out and fall on the Roman rear. A good plan. It might have worked. But when Vidacilius attacked, the Asculans did nothing. Sextus Julius opened his lines and let Vidacilius and his men through, which left Asculum with no choice except to open its gates and let Vidacilius in." "I didn't think Sextus Julius had so much military skill," said Pompey Strabo. Scato shrugged. "Could have been an accident. I doubt it." "I take it the Asculans were not delighted at the prospect of feeding another twenty thousand mouths?" "They were dancing with rage!" said Scato, grinning. "Vidacilius was not greeted with open arms, but with closed minds. So Vidacilius went to the forum, got up on the tribunal, and told the city just what he thought of people who didn't obey orders. Had they done as he had asked, Sextus Julius Caesar's army would be dead. And that is possibly true. Be that as it may, the Asculans were not prepared to admit it. The chief magistrate got onto the tribunal and told Vidacilius what he thought didn't he understand there wasn't enough food to feed the army Vidacilius had brought inside?" "I'm glad to know there's such lack of concord between various sections of the enemy," said Pompey Strabo. "Don't assume I'm telling you this for any other reason than to demonstrate to you how determined Asculum is to hold out," said Scato, no edge to his voice. "You're bound to hear about it, and I'd rather you heard the real story." "So what happened? A fight in the forum?" "Correct. Vidacilius, it became clear, was quite mad. He called the townspeople secret Roman sympathizers and had his soldiers kill a number of them. Then the Asculans found their weapons and retaliated. Luckily most of Vidacilius's troops saw for themselves that he was insane, and left the forum. As soon as darkness fell the gates were opened and over nineteen thousand men sneaked away between the Roman lines Sextus Julius had died, and his men were more interested in mourning him than keeping watch." "Huh!" said Pompey Strabo. "Go on." "Vidacilius took over the forum. He had brought a great deal of food with him, and that he now took and prepared a great feast from it. Perhaps seven or eight hundred men were left to him to help him eat it. He also had a massive funeral pyre built. When the feast was at its height he drank a cup of poison, climbed to the top of the pyre, and had it set alight. While his men roistered, he burned! They tell me it was appalling." "Mad as a Gallic headhunter," said Pompey Strabo. "Indeed," said Scato. "So the city fights on, is what you're saying." "It will fight until every last Asculan is dead." "One thing I can promise you, Publius Vettius if there are any Asculans left alive when I take Asculum Picentum, they'll wish they were dead," said Pompey Strabo. He threw down his bone, wiped his hands on his tunic again. "You know what they call me, don't you?" he asked in polite tones. "I don't think I do." "Carnifex. The Butcher. Now I happen to be proud of that name, Publius Vettius," said Pompey Strabo. "I've had more than my share of nicknames during my lifetime. The Strabo is self-explanatory, of course. But when I was just a bit older than my son is now, I was serving as a contubernalis with Lucius Cinna, Publius Lupus, my cousin Lucius Lucilius, and my good friend Gnaeus Octavius Ruso here. We were with Carbo on that terrible expedition against the Germans in Noricum. And I wasn't very well liked by my fellow cadets. All except Gnaeus Octavius Ruso here, I add. If he hadn't liked me, he wouldn't be with me as one of my senior legates today! Anyway, my fellow cadets tacked another nickname onto the Strabo. Menoeces. We'd visited my home on the way to Noricum, you see, and they found out that my mother's cook was cross-eyed. His name was Menoeces. And that witty bastard Lucilius no family feeling, my mother was his aunt! called me Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo Menoeces, implying that my father was the cook." He sighed, a deadly little sound. "I wore that one for years. But nowadays they call me Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo Carnifex. It has a better ring. Strabo the Butcher." Scato looked bored rather than afraid. "Well, what's in a name?" he asked. "I'm not called Scato because I was born on top of a nice spring of water, you know. They used to say I gushed." Pompey Strabo grinned, but briefly. "And what brings you to see me, Publius Vettius the Gusher?" "Terms." "Tired of fighting?" "Candidly, yes. I'm not unwilling to fight on and I will fight on if I have to! but I think Italia is finished. If Rome were a foreign enemy I wouldn't be here. But I'm a Marsic Italian, and Rome has been in Italy as long as the Marsi. I think it's time both sides salvaged what they can out of this mess, Gnaeus Pompeius. The lex Julia de civitate Latinis et sociis danda makes a big difference. Although it doesn't extend to those in arms against Rome, I note that there's nothing in the lex Plautia Papiria to prevent my applying for the Roman citizenship if I cease hostilities and present myself in person to a praetor in Rome. The same holds true for my men." "What terms are you asking, Publius Vettius?" "Safe conduct for my army through Roman lines, both here and before Asculum Picentum. Between Asculum and Interocrea we will disband, throw our armor and weapons into the Avens. From Interocrea I will need a safe conduct for myself and my men all the way to Rome and the praetor's tribunal. I also ask that you give me a letter for the praetor, confirming my story and giving your approval for my own enfranchisement and that of every man with me." Silence fell. Watching from a far corner, Cicero and Pompey looked from one man's face to the other's. "My father won't agree," whispered Pompey.
"Why not?" "He fancies a big battle." And is it truly on such whims and fancies that the fate of peoples and nations depend? wondered Cicero. "I see why you're asking, Publius Vettius," Pompey Strabo said finally, "but I cannot agree. Too much Roman blood has been shed by your sword and the swords of your men. If you want to get through our lines to present yourselves to the praetors in Rome, you'll have to fight every inch of the way." Scato got up, slapping hands on thighs. "Well, it was worth a try," he said. "I thank you for your hospitality, Gnaeus Pompeius, but it's high time I went back to my army." The Marsic troop left in the dark; no sooner had they ridden out of earshot than Pompey Strabo sounded his trumpets. The camp fell into an ordered activity. "They'll attack tomorrow, probably on two fronts," said Pompey, shaving the crystal-colored hairs off one forearm with his sword. "It will be a good battle." "What shall I do?" asked Cicero miserably. Pompey sheathed his weapon and prepared to lie down on his camp bed; the other cadets had been posted to pre-battle duties elsewhere, so they were alone. "Put on your mail-shirt and your helmet, your sword and your dagger, and stack your shield and spear outside the command tent," said Pompey cheerfully. "If the Marsi break through, Marcus Tullius, you'll have to fight the last-ditch stand!" The Marsi did not break through. Cicero heard the cries and thunder of far-off battle, but saw nothing until Pompey Strabo rode in with his son. Both were disheveled and bloodstained, but both were smiling broadly. "Scato's legate Fraucus is dead," said Pompey to Cicero. ''We rolled the Marsi up and a force of Picentes too. Scato got away with a few of his men, but we've cut off all access to the roads. If they want to go home to Marruvium they'll have to do it the hard way across the mountains without food or shelter." Cicero swallowed. "Letting men die of cold and hunger seems to be one of your father's specialties," he said, quite heroically, he thought, knees trembling. "Turns you sick, doesn't it, poor Marcus Tullius?" Pompey asked, laughing, then patted Cicero affectionately on the back. "War is war, that's all. They'd do the same to us, you know. You can't help it if it turns you sick. That's your nature. Maybe if a man is as intelligent as you are, he loses his appetite for war. Lucky for me! I wouldn't like to pit myself against a warlike man as intelligent as you are. It's as well for Rome that there are a lot more men like my father and me than there are like you. Rome got where she is by fighting. But someone has to run things in the Forum and that, Marcus Tullius, is your arena."