Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

  “And what about the family Caecilius Metellus?”

  “She says the whole family Caecilius Metellus is past the zenith of its power, and will grow less in number and less in wealth, surpassed by — among others — you yourself, dominus.”

  “I want to see this Syrian prophetess,” said Marius.

  “It can be arranged. But you must come to Old Carthage, for she will not leave Prince Gauda’s house,” said Nabdalsa.

  An audience with Martha the Syrian prophetess involved an audience with Prince Gauda first; resignedly Marius listened to the litany of complaints about Metellus, and made promises he hadn’t the faintest idea how he was going to keep.

  “Rest assured, your Highness, that when I am in a position to do so, I will make sure you are treated with all the respect and deference to which your birth entitles you,” he said, bowing as low as even Gauda could have wished.

  “That day will come!” said Gauda eagerly, grinning to reveal very bad teeth. “Martha says you will be the First Man in Rome, and before very long. For that reason, Gaius Marius, I wish to enroll myself among your clients, and I will make sure that my supporters in the Roman African province also enroll themselves as your clients. What is more, when I am King of Numidia, the whole of Numidia will be in your clientship.”

  To this Marius listened amazed; he, a mere praetor, was being offered the kind of clients even a Caecilius Metellus might long for in vain! Oh, he had to meet this Martha, this Syrian prophetess!

  Not many moments later he was given the chance, for she had asked to see him, and Gauda had him conducted to her apartments within the huge villa he was using as a temporary palace. A cursory glance was enough to assure Marius, bidden wait in her sitting room, that she was indeed held in high esteem, for the apartment was fabulously furnished, its walls painted with some of the finest murals he had ever been privileged to see, and its floors paved with mosaics equally as good as the murals.

  When she came in she was wearing purple, another signal honor not normally accorded to one whose birth was not royal. And royal she certainly was not. A little, shriveled, skinny old lady who stank of stale urine and whose hair hadn’t been washed in what Marius suspected were literal years. She looked foreign, great beaky thin-bladed nose dominating a face of a thousand wrinkles, and a pair of black eyes whose light was as fierce and proud and vigilant as any eagle’s. Her breasts had sagged like two empty socks with toes full of pebbles, and swung visibly beneath the thin Tyrian purple shift which was all she wore above the waist. A Tyrian purple shawl was tied about her hips, her hands and feet were almost black with henna, and she tinkled when she walked from a myriad of bells, bracelets, rings, and trinkets, all of solid gold. Secured by a solid gold comb, a gauze veil of Tyrian purple covered the back of her head and fell over her spine like a windless flag.

  “Sit down, Gaius Marius,” she said, pointing at a chair with one long-taloned finger, its gnarled length glittering from the many rings adorning it.

  Marius did as he was told, unable to take his eyes from her ancient brown face. “Prince Gauda tells me that you have said I will be the First Man in Rome,” he said, and was forced to clear his throat. “I would like to hear more.”

  She actually began to cackle a classic crone’s cackle, revealing gums toothless save for one yellowed incisor in her upper jaw. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you would,” she said, and clapped her hands for a servant. “Bring us an infusion of the dried leaves and some of those little cakes I like,” she ordered. Then to Gaius Marius she said, “It won’t be long. When it comes, we will talk. Until then, we will sit in silence.”

  Not willing to offend her, he sat as he was bidden—in silence—and, when the steaming brew came, sipped at the cup of it she gave him, his nose suspicious, his instincts wary. It didn’t taste too bad, but as he wasn’t used to hot drinks, he burned his tongue and put the cup aside. She, clearly an expert, took birdlike sips at her own cup, downing each one with an audible gulp of pleasure.

  “Delicious stuff, though I daresay you’d prefer wine.”

  “No, not at all,” he murmured politely.

  “Have a cake,” she mumbled, mouth full.

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “All right, all right, I can take a hint!” she said, and rinsed her mouth with another draft of the hot liquid. Out came one claw imperiously. “Give me your right hand.”

  He gave. She took.

  “Yours is a great destiny, Gaius Marius,” she said, eyes devouring the multiplicity of creases in his palm. “What a hand! It shapes whatever it puts itself to. And what a head line! It rules your heart, it rules your life, it rules everything except the ravages of time, Gaius Marius, for those no one can withstand. But you will withstand much that other men cannot. There is a terrible illness... But you will overcome it the first time it appears, and even the second time... There are enemies, enemies by the score... But you will overcome them... You will be consul the year after this one just beginning, which is to say, next year… And after that, you will be consul six more times... Seven times in all will you be consul, and you will be called the Third Founder of Rome, for you will save Rome from the greatest of all her perils!”

  He was conscious of his face burning, burning, hot as a spear thrust into the fire. And of a whirling roaring inside his head. Of his heart pounding away like a hortator drumming at ramming speed. Of a thick red veil in front of his eyes. For she spoke the truth. He knew it.

  “You have the love and respect of a great woman,” Martha went on, pawing now at the minor folds in his skin, “and her nephew will be the greatest of all the Romans for all time.”

  “No, that’s me,” he said at once, his bodily responses calming into normality at this less palatable piece of news.

  “No, it’s her nephew,” said Martha stubbornly. “A much greater man than you, Gaius Marius. He has the same first name as you, Gaius. But his family is her family, not yours.”

  The fact was filed; he would not forget it. “What of my son?” he asked.

  “Your son will be a great man too. But not as great as his father, nor will he live nearly as long in the number of his years. However, he will still be alive when your time comes.”

  She pushed his hand away and tucked her dirty bare feet—toes a-tinkle with bells, ankles a-clash with bracelets—under her on the couch where she sat.

  “I have seen all there is to see, Gaius Marius,” she said, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

  “I thank you, Martha Prophetess,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling out his purse. “How much... ?”

  She opened her eyes, wickedly black, evilly alive. “For you there is no fee. It is enough to be in the company of the truly great. Fees are for the likes of Prince Gauda, who will never be a great man, though he will be a king.” Came the cackle again. “But you know that, Gaius Marius, as surely as I do, for all that you have no gift to look into the future. Your gift is to see into the hearts of men, and Prince Gauda has a small heart.”

  “Then once again I must thank you.”

  “Oh, I do have a favor to ask of you,” she called to his back as he went to the door.

  He turned immediately. “Yes?”

  “When you are consul for the second time, Gaius Marius, bring me to Rome and treat me with honor. I have a wish to see Rome before I die.”

  “You shall see Rome,” he said, and left her.

  Consul seven times! The First Man in Rome! The Third Founder of Rome! What greater destiny could there be than that? How could another Roman surpass that? Gaius... She must mean the son of his younger brother-in-law, Gaius Julius Caesar Junior. Yes, his son would be Julia’s nephew—the only one to be named Gaius, certainly.

  “Over my dead body,” said Gaius Marius, and climbed on his horse to ride back to Utica.

  *

  He sought an interview with Metellus the next day, and found the consul poring over a sheaf of documents and letters from Rome, for a ship had come in overnight, long dela
yed by stormy seas.

  “Excellent news, Gaius Marius!” said Metellus, for once affable. “My command in Africa is prorogued, with proconsular imperium, and every likelihood of continued prorogation should I need more time.” That sheet of paper was dropped, another picked up, both for show, since he had obviously read them before Marius arrived; no one just scanned words on paper in silence and with a lightning glance of comprehension, for they had to be disentangled from each other and read aloud to aid the disentanglement process.

  “It is just as well my army is intact, because it seems the general shortage of manpower in Italy has become acute, thanks to Silanus in Gaul. Oh, you don’t know about that, do you? Yes, my consular colleague was defeated by the Germans. Shocking loss of life.” He grabbed at another roll, held it up. “Silanus writes that there were upward of half a million German giants on the field.” Down went the scroll, the one he still held was brandished at Marius. “Here is the Senate notifying me that it has nullified the lex Sempronia of Gaius Gracchus limiting the numbers of campaigns a man must complete. High time! We can call up thousands of veterans if ever we need them.” Metellus sounded pleased.

  “That is a very bad piece of legislation,” said Marius. “If a veteran wishes to retire, after ten years or six full campaigns, he should be entitled to do so without fear that he will ever again be mustered under the colors. We are eroding the smallholders, Quintus Caecilius! How can a man leave his little farm for what might now be twenty years of service in the legions, and expect to see it prosper in his absence? How can he sire sons to take his place, both on his little farm and in our legions? More and more it has become the duty of his barren wife to oversee their land, and women do not have the strength, the foresight, or the aptitude. We should be looking elsewhere for our soldiers— and we should be protecting them against bad generalship!”

  Metellus had pokered up, lips thin. “It is not your place, Gaius Marius, to criticize the wisdom of the most illustrious governing body in our society!” he said. “Just who do you think you are?”

  “I believe you once told me who I was, Quintus Caecilius, very many years ago. As I remember, an Italian hayseed with no Greek was how you put it. And that may be true. But it does not disqualify me from commenting upon what I still deem a very bad piece of legislation,” said Marius, keeping his voice even. “We—and by ‘we’ I mean the Senate, of which illustrious body I am no less a member than you!—are allowing a whole class of citizens to die out because we haven’t got the courage or the presence of mind to put a stop to all these so-called generals we’ve been fielding now for years! The blood of Roman soldiers is not for wasting, Quintus Caecilius, it’s for living and healthy use!”

  Marius got to his feet, leaning across Metellus’s desk, and continued his diatribe. “When we originally designed our army, it was for campaigns within Italy, so that men could go home again each winter, and manage their farms, and sire their sons, and supervise their women. But when a man enlists or is levied nowadays, he’s shipped overseas, and instead of a campaign lasting a single summer, it runs into years during which he never manages to go home, so that his six campaigns might take him twelve or even fifteen years to complete—in some place other than his homeland! Gaius Gracchus legislated to try to curtail that, and to stop the smallholdings of Italy becoming the prey of big-time speculating graziers!” He drew a sobbing breath, eyed Metellus ironically. “Oh, but I forgot, didn’t I, Quintus Caecilius? You’re one of those big-time speculating graziers yourself, aren’t you? And how you do love to see the smallholdings fall into your grasp because the men who ought to be home running them are dying on some foreign field through sheer aristocratic greed and carelessness!”

  “Aha! Now we come to it!” cried Metellus, jumping to his feet and thrusting his face into Marius’s. “There it is! Aristocratic greed and carelessness, eh? It’s the aristocrat sticks in your craw, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you a thing or two, Gaius Marius Upstart! Marrying a Julia of the Julians can’t turn you into an aristocrat!”

  “I wouldn’t want it to,” snarled Marius. “I despise the lot of you—save for the single exception of my father-in-law, who by some miracle has managed to remain a decent man in spite of his ancestry!”

  Their voices had risen to shouts long since, and in the outer office all ears were turned their way.

  “Go to it, Gaius Marius!” said a tribune of the soldiers.

  “Hit him where it hurts, Gaius Marius!” said another.

  “Piss all over the arrogant fellator, Gaius Marius!” said a third, grinning.

  Which made it manifest that everyone liked Gaius Marius a great deal more than they liked Quintus Caecilius Metellus, all the way down to the ranker soldiers.

  But the shouting had penetrated even further than the outer office; when the consul’s son, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Junior, burst in, the consul’s staff tried to look all efficiency and busy activity. Without sparing them a glance, Metellus Piglet opened the door to his father’s room.

  “Father, your voices can be heard for miles!” said the young man, casting a glare of loathing at Marius.

  He was very like his father physically, of average height and size, brown-haired, brown-eyed, modestly good-looking in a Roman way, and having nothing about him to make him stand out in a Roman crowd.

  The interruption sobered Metellus, though it did little to diminish Marius’s rage. Neither of the antagonists made any move to sit down again. Young Metellus Piglet stood to one side, alarmed and upset, passionately devoted to his father but out of his depth, especially when he bethought himself of the indignities he had heaped upon the head of Gaius Marius ever since his father had appointed him commander of the Utica garrison. For he now saw for the first time a different Gaius Marius: physically enormous, of a bravery and courage and intelligence beyond the capacity of any Caecilius Metellus.

  “I see no point in continuing this conversation, Gaius Marius,” said Metellus, hiding the trembling of his hands by pressing them, palms down, on the desk. “What did you come to see me about, anyway?”

  “I came to tell you that I intend to leave service in this war at the end of next summer,” Marius said. “I’m going back to Rome to seek election as consul.”

  Metellus looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “You are what?”

  “I’m going to Rome to contest the consular elections.”

  “No, you are not,” said Metellus. “You signed on as my senior legate—and with a propraetor’s imperium at that!—for the duration of my term as governor of Africa Province. My term has just been extended. Which means so has yours.”

  “You can release me.”

  “If I wish to release you. But I do not wish to,” said Metellus. “In fact, if I had my way, Gaius Marius, I’d bury you here in the provinces for the rest of your life!”

  “Don’t make me do anything nasty, Quintus Caecilius,” Marius said, in quite a friendly voice.

  “Make you do anything what? Oh, get out of here, Marius! Go and do something useful—stop wasting my time!” Metellus caught his son’s eye and grinned at him like a conspirator.

  “I insist that I be released from service in this war so that I may stand for consul in Rome this coming autumn.”

  Emboldened by his father’s growing air of lordly and indifferent superiority, Metellus Piglet began to break into muffled giggles, which fueled his father’s wit.

  “I tell you what, Gaius Marius,” he said, smiling, “you are now almost fifty years of age. My son is twenty. Might I suggest that you stand for election as consul in the same year he does? By then you might just have managed to learn enough to pass muster in the consul’s chair! Though I’m sure my son would be delighted to give you a few pointers.’’

  Young Metellus burst into audible laughter.

  Marius looked at them from under his bristling eyebrows, his eagle’s face prouder and haughtier by far than theirs. “I will be consul,” he said. “Rest assured, Quintus Caecilius,
that I will be consul—not once, but seven times.”

  And he left the room, leaving the two Metelluses gazing after him in mingled puzzlement and fear. Wondering why they could find nothing amusing in that preposterous statement.

  The next day Marius rode back to Old Carthage and sought an audience with Prince Gauda.

  Admitted into the princely presence, he went down on one knee and pressed his lips to Gauda’s clammy limp hand.

  “Rise, Gaius Marius!’’ cried Gauda delightedly, charmed by the sight of this magnificent-looking man doing him homage in such a genuinely respectful, admiring way.

  Marius began to rise, then sank down on both knees, his hands outstretched. “Your royal Highness,” he said, “I am not worthy to stand in your presence, for I come before you as the most humble of petitioners.”

  “Rise, rise!” squealed Gauda, more delighted still. “I will not hear of your asking me for anything on your knees! Here, sit by me and tell me what it is you want.”

  The chair Gauda indicated was indeed by him—but one step lower than the princely throne. Bowing deeply all the way to the chair, Marius seated himself on its very edge, as if awed into discomfort by the radiance of the only being comfortably seated, namely Gauda himself.

  “When you enrolled yourself as my client, Prince Gauda, I accepted the amazing honor you did me because I felt that I would be able to advance your cause in Rome. For I had intended to seek election as consul in the autumn.” Marius paused, sighed profoundly. “But, alas, it is not to be! Quintus Caecilius Metellus remains in Africa Province, his term as governor prorogued—which means that I, as his legate, may not leave his service without his permission. When I told him I wished to seek election as consul, he refused to allow me to leave Africa one day ahead of himself.’’