As the vote of each century was called, starting with the First Century of the First Class, the pattern began to emerge: Lucius Cassius Longinus was going to be the choice of every century, but their choices of the second consul were rich and varied. Sure enough, the First and Second Classes voted so solidly for Lucius Cassius Longinus that he was returned in first place without missing a century, and so was designated the senior consul, who held the fasces for the month of January. But the name of the junior consul wasn’t known until almost the end of the Third Class, so close was the contest between Gaius Marius and Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar.
And then it happened. The successful candidate for junior consul was Gaius Marius. The Caecilius Metelluses were still able to influence Centuriate voting—but not enough to keep Gaius Marius out. And that could be classified as a great triumph for Gaius Marius, the Italian hayseed with no Greek. He was a genuine New Man, the first of his family to hold a seat in the Senate, the first of his family to make his home inside the city of Rome, the first of his family to make a huge fortune, the first of his family to make a mark in the army.
*
Late in the afternoon of election day, Gaius Julius Caesar held a celebratory dinner, a family affair. His contact with Marius had been confined to a quick handshake in the Forum and another quick handshake on the Campus Martius when the centuries had assembled, so desperate had Marius’s five-day election campaign been.
“You’ve had unbelievable luck,” said Caesar, leading his guest of honor to the dining room while his daughter Julia went off to find her mother and younger sister.
“I know it,” said Marius.
“We’re very thin as to men today,” Caesar went on, “with both my sons still in Africa, but I can offer you one more man as moral support, so we do equal the women.”
“I have letters from Sextus and Gaius Julius, and plenty of news about their exploits,” Marius said as they arranged themselves comfortably on the couch.
“Later will do.”
The promised third man entered the dining room, and Marius started in surprise; for he recognized the young yet mature man who had been standing among the knights almost three years before while the sacrificial bull of the new consul Minucius Rufus had so fought its dying. How could one forget that face, that hair?
“Gaius Marius,” said Caesar with a little constraint, “I would like you to meet Lucius Cornelius Sulla, not only my next-door neighbor, but also my fellow senator, and soon to be my other son-in-law.”
“Well!” exclaimed Marius, extending his hand and shaking Sulla’s with great warmth. “You’re a lucky man, Lucius Cornelius.”
“I’m well aware of it,” said Sulla with feeling.
Caesar had chosen to be a trifle unorthodox in his dining arrangements, keeping the top couch for himself and Marius, and relegating Sulla to the second couch; not an insult, as he was careful to explain, but to make the group look a little larger, and give everyone plenty of room.
How interesting, thought Marius with a mental frown; I have never before seen Gaius Julius Caesar feeling at a disadvantage. But this oddly beautiful fellow upsets him in some way, throws him off balance....
And then the women came in, seated themselves on straight chairs opposite their partners, and the dinner got under way.
Try as he would not to present the picture of a doting elderly husband, Marius found his eyes constantly drawn to his Julia, who had grown in his absence into a ravishing young matron, gracious, unafraid of her new responsibilities, an excellent mother and chatelaine—and the most ideal of wives. Whereas, decided Marius, Julilla had not grown up satisfactorily at all. Of course he had not seen her in the worst throes of her wasting illness—which had ceased to plague her some time before, yet had left her with what he could only call a thin attitude to life—thin of body, thin of intellect, thin of experience, thin of contentment. Feverish in her talk, fluttery in her manner, she was prone to jump from fright, and could not stay settled on her chair; nor could she restrain herself from dominating her betrothed’s attention, so that he often found himself excluded from the conversation between Marius and Caesar.
He bore it well, Marius noted, and seemed genuinely devoted to Julilla, fascinated no doubt by the way she focused her emotions upon him. But that, the practical Marius decided, would not last beyond six months of marriage. Not with a Lucius Cornelius Sulla the bridegroom! Nothing about him suggested a natural preference for female company, or an uxorious inclination.
At the end of the meal Caesar announced that he was taking Gaius Marius off to his study for a private talk. “Stay here if you like, or go about your various ways,” he said calmly. “It is too long since Gaius Marius and I have met.”
“There have been changes in your household, Gaius Julius,” said Marius as they got comfortable in the tablinum.
“Indeed there have—and therein lies most of my reason for wanting to get you on your own without delay.”
“Well, I’m consul on New Year’s Day next, and that’s my life disposed of tidily,” said Marius, smiling. “I owe it all to you—and not the least do I owe you the happiness of a perfect wife, an ideal partner in my enterprises. I’ve had little time to give her since my return, but now that I am elected, I intend to rectify that. Three days from now I’m taking Julia and my son to Baiae, and we’re going to forget the whole world for a month.”
“It pleases me more than you can know to hear you speak with such affection and respect of my daughter.’’
Marius leaned back a little more comfortably in his chair. “Very well. Now to Lucius Cornelius Sulla. I remember some words you had to say about an aristocrat without the money to take up the life his birth entitled him to, and the name was his, your son-in-law to be. What happened to change things?”
“According to him, luck. He says if it goes on the way it has since he met Julilla, he’s going to have to add a second nickname—Felix—to the name he inherited from his father. Who was a drunkard and a wastrel, but who married the wealthy Clitumna fifteen years ago or more, and died not long after: Lucius Cornelius met Julilla on New Year’s Day almost three years ago, and she gave him a grass crown without knowing the significance of what she had done. He maintains that from that moment, his luck changed. First Clitumna’s nephew died, who was her heir. Then a woman called Nicopolis died and left Lucius Cornelius a small fortune—she was, I gather, his mistress. And not many moons after that, Clitumna committed suicide. Having no heirs of her own blood, she left her whole fortune—the house next door, a villa at Circei, and some ten million denarii—to Lucius Cornelius.”
“Ye gods, he does deserve to add Felix to his name,” said Marius, rather dryly. “Are you being naive about this, Gaius Julius, or have you proved to your satisfaction that Lucius Cornelius Sulla didn’t help any of the dead into Charon’s ferry across the Styx?”
Caesar acknowledged the shaft with a raised hand, but grinned. “No, Gaius Marius, I assure you I have not been naive. I cannot implicate Lucius Cornelius in any of the three deaths. The nephew expired after a long bowel and stomach disorder, where the Greek freedwoman Nicopolis died of massive kidney failure within—I don’t know, a day, two days, certainly no longer. Both were autopsied, and nothing suspicious was found. Clitumna was morbidly depressed before she killed herself. It happened at Circei, at a time when Lucius Cornelius was most definitely here in Rome. I’ve subjected all Clitumna’s household slaves, both here and in Circei, to exhaustive questioning, and it is my considered opinion that there is nothing more to know about Lucius Cornelius Sulla.’’ He grimaced. “I have always been against torturing slaves to find evidence of crime because I don’t think evidence produced by torture is worth a spoonful of vinegar. But I genuinely do not believe Clitumna’s slaves would have a tale to tell even if they were tortured. So I elected not to bother.”
Marius nodded. “I agree with you, Gaius Julius. Slave testimony is of value only if it is freely given—and is as logical as it is paten
tly truthful.”
“So the upshot of all this was that Lucius Cornelius went from abject poverty to decent wealth over the course of two months,” Caesar went on. “From Nicopolis he inherited enough to be admitted to the knights’ census, and from Clitumna enough to be admitted to the Senate. Thanks to Scaurus’s fuss about the absence of censors, a new pair were elected last May. Otherwise Lucius Cornelius would have had to wait for admission to the Senate for several years.”
Marius laughed. “Yes, what did actually happen? Didn’t anyone want the censors’ jobs? I mean, to some extent Fabius Maximus Eburnus is logical, but Licinius Getha? He was thrown out of the Senate by the censors eight years ago for immoral behavior, and only got back into the Senate by getting himself elected a tribune of the plebs!”
“I know,” said Caesar gloomily. “No, I think what happened was that everyone was reluctant to stand for fear of offending Scaurus. To want to be censor seemed like a want of respect and loyalty for Scaurus, so the only ones who stood were quite incapable of that kind of sensitivity. Mind you, Getha’s easy enough to deal with—he’s only in it for the status and a few silver handshakes from companies bidding for State contracts. Where Eburnus—well, we all know he’s not right in the head, don’t we, Gaius Marius?”
Yes, thought Gaius Marius, we do indeed! Immensely old and of an aristocracy surpassed only by the Julius clan, the Fabius Maximus line had died out, and was kept going only by a series of adoptions. The Quintus Fabius Maximus Eburnus who had been elected censor was an adopted Fabius Maximus; he had sired only one son, and then five years earlier, he had executed this one son for unchastity. Though there was no law to prevent Eburnus from executing his son when acting as paterfamilias, the execution of wives or children under the protective shelter of family law had long fallen into disuse. Therefore, Eburnus’s action had horrified the whole of Rome.
“Mind you, it’s just as well for Rome that Getha has an Eburnus as his colleague,” said Marius thoughtfully. “I doubt he’ll get away with much, not with Eburnus there.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but oh, that poor young man, his son! Mind you, Eburnus is really a Servilius Caepio, and the Servilius Caepio lot are all rather strange when it comes to sexual morality. Chaster than Artemis of the Forest, and vocal about it too. Which really makes one wonder.”
“So which censor persuaded which to let Lucius Cornelius Sulla into the Senate?” asked Marius. “One hears he hasn’t exactly been a pillar of sexual morality, now that I can associate his name with his face.”
“Oh, I think the moral laxity was mostly boredom and frustration,” said Caesar easily. “However, Eburnus did look down his knobby little Servilius Caepio nose and mutter a bit, it’s true. Where Getha would admit a Tingitanian ape if the price was right. So in the end they agreed Lucius Cornelius might be enrolled—but only upon conditions.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Lucius Cornelius is conditionally a senator—he has to stand for election as a quaestor and get in the first time. If he fails, then he’s no longer a senator.”
“And will he get in?”
“What do you think, Gaius Marius?”
“With a name like his? Oh, he’ll get in!”
“I hope so.” But Caesar looked dubious. Uncertain. A little embarrassed? He drew a breath and leveled a straight blue gaze at his son-in-law, smiling ruefully. “I vowed, Gaius Marius, that after your generosity when you married Julia, I would never ask you for another favor. However, that’s a silly sort of vow. How can one know what the future will need? Need. I need. I need another favor from you.”
“Anything, Gaius Julius,” said Marius warmly.
“Have you had sufficient time with your wife to find out why Julilla nearly starved herself to death?” asked Caesar.
“No.” The stern strong eagle’s face lit up for a moment in pure joy. “What little time we’ve had together since I returned home hasn’t been wasted in talking, Gaius Julius!”
Caesar laughed, sighed. “I wish my younger daughter was cast in the same mould as my older! But she isn’t. It is probably my fault, and Marcia’s. We spoiled her, and excused her much the three older children were not excused. On the other hand, it is my considered opinion that there is an innate lack in Julilla as well. Just before Clitumna died, we found out that the silly girl had fallen in love with Lucius Cornelius, and was trying to force him—or us—or both him and us—it is very difficult to know just what she intended, if ever she really knew herself—anyway, she wanted Lucius Cornelius, and she knew I would never give my consent to such a union.”
Marius looked incredulous. “And knowing there was a clandestine relationship between them, you’ve allowed the marriage to go ahead?”
“No, no, Gaius Marius, Lucius Cornelius was never in any way implicated!” Caesar cried. “I assure you, he had nothing to do with what she did.”
“But you said she gave him a grass crown two New Years ago,” Marius objected.
“Believe me, the meeting was innocent, at least on his part. He didn’t encourage her—in fact, he tried to discourage her. She brought disgrace upon herself and us, because she actually attempted to suborn him into declaring feelings for her which he knew I would never condone. Let Julia tell you the whole story, and you’ll see what I mean,” said Caesar.
“In which case, how is it they’re getting married?”
“Well, when he inherited his fortune and was able to take up his proper station in life, he asked me for Julilla’s hand. In spite of the way she had treated him.”
“The grass crown,” said Marius thoughtfully. “Yes, I can understand how he’d feel bound to her, especially when her gift changed his luck.”
“I understand it too, which is why I have given my consent.” Again Caesar sighed, more heavily. “The trouble is, Gaius Marius, that I feel none of the liking for Lucius Cornelius that I do for you. He’s a very strange man—there are things in him that set my teeth on edge, and yet I have no idea in the world what those things are. And one must always strive to be fair, to be impartial in judgments.”
“Cheer up, Gaius Julius, it will all turn out well in the end,” said Marius. “Now what can I do for you?”
“Help Lucius Cornelius get elected quaestor,” said Caesar, speech crispening now he had a man’s problem to deal with. “The trouble is that no one knows him. Oh, everyone knows his name! Everyone knows he’s a genuine patrician Cornelius. But the cognomen Sulla isn’t one we hear of these days, and he never had the opportunity to expose himself in the Forum and the law courts when he was a very young man, nor did he ever do military service. In fact, if some malicious noble chose to make a fuss about it, the very fact that he’s never done military service could keep him out of office—and out of the Senate. What we’re hoping is that no one will ask too closely, and in that respect this pair of censors are ideal. It didn’t occur to either of them that Lucius Cornelius was not able to train on the Campus Martius or join the legions as a junior military tribune. And luckily it was Scaurus and Drusus who enrolled Lucius Cornelius as a knight, so our new censors simply assume the old censors went into everything a great deal more thoroughly than they actually did. Scaurus and Drusus were understanding men, they felt Lucius Cornelius should be given his chance. And besides, the Senate wasn’t in question at the time.”
“Do you want me to bribe Lucius Cornelius into office?’’ Marius asked.
Caesar was old-fashioned enough to look shocked. “Most definitely not! I can see where bribing might be excusable if the consulship was the prize, but quaestor! Never! Also, it would be too risky. Eburnus has his eye on Lucius Cornelius, he’ll be watching for any opportunity to disqualify him—and prosecute him. No, the favor I want is far different and less comfortable for you if he turns out to be hopeless. I want you to ask for Lucius Cornelius as your personal quaestor—give him the accolade of a personal appointment. As you well know, once the electorate realizes a candidate for the quaestorship has already been asked
for by a consul-elect, he is certain to be voted in.”
Marius didn’t answer immediately; he was busy digesting the implications. No matter really whether Sulla was innocent of any complicity in the deaths of his mistress and his stepmother, his testamentary benefactresses. It was bound to be said later on that he had murdered them if he made sufficient political mark to be consular material; someone would unearth the story, and a whispering campaign that he had murdered to get his hands on enough money to espouse the public career his father’s poverty had denied him would be a gift from the gods in the hands of his political rivals. Having a daughter of Gaius Julius Caesar to wive would help, but nothing would scotch the slur entirely. And in the end there would be many who believed it, just as there were many who believed Gaius Marius had no Greek. That was the first objection. The second lay in the fact that Gaius Julius Caesar couldn’t quite bring himself to like Sulla, though he had no concrete grounds for the way he felt. Was it a matter of Smell rather than Thought? Animal instincts? And the third objection was the personality of Julilla. His Julia, he knew now, would never have married a man she considered unworthy, no matter how desperate the Julius Caesar financial plight. Where Julilla had shown that she was flighty, thoughtless, selfish—the kind of girl who couldn’t pick a worthy mate if her life depended upon it. Yet she had picked Lucius Cornelius Sulla.
Then he let his mind go far from the Caesars, cast it back to that early drizzly morning on the Capitol when he had covertly watched Sulla watching the bulls bleed to death. And then he knew what was the right thing to do, what he was going to answer. Lucius Cornelius Sulla was important. Under no circumstances must he be allowed to slide back into obscurity. He must inherit his birthright.
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