No one, of course, had asked Dalmatica how she felt about the union, and at first she hadn’t been very sure herself. A little dazzled by the immense auctoritas and dignitas her new husband possessed, she was also glad to be free of her uncle Metellus Numidicus’s stormy household, which at that time contained his sister, a woman whose sexual proclivities and hysterical behavior had made her a torment to live with. Dalmatica became pregnant at once (a fact which increased Scaurus’s auctoritas and dignitas even more), and bore Scaurus a daughter. But in the meantime she had met Sulla at a dinner party given by her husband, and the attraction between them had been powerful, mutual, distressing.
Aware of the danger she presented, Sulla had made no attempt to pursue an acquaintance with Scaurus’s young wife. She, however, had different ideas. And after the shattered bodies of Saturninus and his friends were burned with all the honor their properly Roman status decreed, and Sulla began to go about the Forum and the city making himself known as part of his campaign to win a praetorship, Dalmatica too began to go about the Forum and the city. Wherever Sulla went, there too would be Dalmatica, all muffled in draperies, hiding behind a plinth or a column, sure that no one noticed her.
Very quickly Sulla learned to avoid places like the Porticus Margaritaria, where indeed a woman of a noble house might be expected to haunt the jeweler’s shops, and could claim innocent presence. That reduced her chances of actually speaking to him, but to Sulla her conduct was a resurrection of an old and awful nightmare—of the days when Julilla had buried him beneath an avalanche of love letters she or her girl had slipped into the sinus of his toga at every opportunity, in circumstances where he didn’t dare draw attention to their actions. Well, that had ended in a marriage, a virtually indissoluble confarreatio union which had lasted—bitter, importunate, humiliating—until her death by suicide, yet one more terrible episode in an endless procession of women hungry to tame him.
So Sulla had gone into the mean and stinking, crowded alleys of the Subura, and confided in the only friend he owned with the detachment he needed so desperately at that moment—Aurelia, sister-in-law of his dead wife, Julilla.
“What can I do?” he had cried to her. “I’m trapped, Aurelia; it’s Julilla all over again! I can’t be rid of her!”
“The trouble is, they have so little to do with their time,” said Aurelia, looking grim. “Nursemaids for their babies, little parties with their friends chiefly distinguished by the amount of gossip they exchange, looms they have no intention of using, and heads too empty to find solace in a book. Most of them feel nothing for their husbands because their marriages are made for convenience—their fathers need extra political clout, or their husbands the dowries or the extra nobility. A year down the road, and they’re ripe for the mischief of a love affair.” She sighed. “After all, Lucius Cornelius, in the matter of love they can exercise free choice, and in how many areas can they do that? The wiser among them content themselves with slaves. But the most foolish are those who fall in love. And that, unfortunately, is what has happened here. This poor silly child Dalmatica is quite out of her mind! And you are the cause of it.”
He chewed his lip, hid his thoughts by staring at his hands. “Not a willing cause,” he said.
“I know that! But does Marcus Aemilius Scaurus?”
“Ye gods, I hope he knows nothing!”
Aurelia snorted. “I’d say he knows plenty.”
“Then why hasn’t he come to see me? Ought I to see him?”
“I’m thinking about that,” said the landlady of an insula apartment building, the confidante of many, the mother of three children, the lonely wife, the busy soul who was never a busybody.
She was sitting side-on to her work table, a large area completely covered by rolls of paper, single sheets of paper, and book buckets; but there was no disorder, only the evidence of many business matters and much work.
If she could not help him, Sulla thought, no one could, for the only other person to whom he might have gone was not reliable in this situation. Aurelia was purely friend; Metrobius was also lover, with all the emotional complications that role meant, as well as the further complication of his male sex. When he had seen Metrobius the day before, the young Greek actor had made an acid remark about Dalmatica. Shocked, Sulla had only then realized that all of Rome must be talking about him and Dalmatica, for the world of Metrobius was far removed from the world Sulla now moved in.
“Ought I see Marcus Aemilius Scaurus?” Sulla asked again.
“I’d prefer that you saw Dalmatica, but I don’t see how you possibly can,” said Aurelia, lips pursed.
Sulla looked eager. “Could you perhaps invite her here?’’
“Certainly not!” said Aurelia, scandalized. “Lucius Cornelius, for a particularly hard-headed man, sometimes you don’t seem to have the sense you were surely born with! Don’t you understand? Marcus Aemilius Scaurus is undoubtedly having his wife watched. All that’s saved your white hide so far is lack of evidence to support his suspicions.”
His long canines showed, but not in a smile; for an unwary moment Sulla dropped his mask, and Aurelia caught a glimpse of someone she didn’t know. Yet—was that really true? Better to say, someone she had sensed lived there inside him, but never before had seen. Someone devoid of human qualities, a naked clawed monster fit only to scream at the moon. And for the first time in her life, she felt terrible fear.
Her visible shiver banished the monster; Sulla put up his mask, and groaned.
“Then what do I do, Aurelia? What can I do?”
“The last time you talked about her—admittedly that was two years ago—you said you were in love with her, though you’d only met her that once. It’s very like Julilla, isn’t it? And that makes it more unbearable by far. Of course, she knows nothing of Julilla beyond the fact that in the past you had a wife who killed herself—exactly the sort of fact to enhance your attractiveness. It suggests you’re dangerous for a woman to know, to love. What a challenge! No, I very much fear poor little Dalmatica is hopelessly caught in your toils, however unintentionally you may have thrown them.”
She thought for a moment in silence, then held his eyes. “Say nothing, Lucius Cornelius, and do nothing. Wait until Marcus Aemilius Scaurus comes to you. That way, you look utterly innocent. But make sure he can find no evidence of infidelity, even of the most circumstantial nature. Forbid your wife to be out of your house when you are at home, in case Dalmatica bribes one of your servants to let her in. The trouble is, you neither understand women, nor like them very much. So you don’t know how to deal with their worst excesses—and they bring out the worst in you. Her husband must come to you. But be kind to him, I beg you! He will find his visit galling, an old man with a young wife. Not a cuckold, but only because of your disinterest. Therefore you must do everything in your power to keep his pride intact. After all, his clout is only equaled by Gaius Marius’s.” She smiled. “I know that’s one comparison he wouldn’t agree with, but it’s true. If you want to be praetor, you can’t afford to offend him.”
Sulla took her advice, but unfortunately not all of it; and made a bad enemy because he was not kind, not helpful, did not strive to keep Scaurus’s pride intact.
For sixteen days after his interview with Aurelia, nothing happened, except that now he searched for Scaurus’s watchers, and he took every precaution to give Scaurus no evidence of infidelity. There were furtive winks and covert grins among Scaurus’s friends, and among his own; no doubt they had always been there to see, but he had closed his eyes to them.
The worst of it was that he still wanted Dalmatica—or loved her—or was obsessed by her—or all three. Julilla once more. The pain, the hatred, the hunger to lash out in any direction at anyone who got in his way. From a dream about making love to Dalmatica, he would pass in a flash to a dream about breaking her neck and seeing her dance insanely across a patch of moonlit grass in Circei—no, no, that was how he had killed his stepmother! He began frequently to op
en the secret drawer in the cupboard which housed the mask of his ancestor Publius Cornelius Sulla Rufinus Flamen Dialis, take from it his little bottles of poisons and the box containing white foundry powder—that was how he had killed Lucius Gavius Stichus and Hercules Atlas the strongman. Mushrooms? That was how he had killed his mistress—eat these, Dalmatica!
But time and experience had accumulated since Julilla died, and he knew himself better; he couldn’t kill Dalmatica any more than he had been able to kill Julilla. With the women of noble and ancient houses, there was no other alternative than to see the business out to its last and bitterest flicker. One day—some day—he and Caecilia Metella Dalmatica would finish what he at this moment did not dare to start.
Then Marcus Aemilius Scaurus came knocking on his door, that same door which had felt the hands of many ghosts, and oozed a drop of malice from out of its woody cells. The act of touching it contaminated Scaurus, who thought only that this interview was going to be even harder than he had envisioned.
Seated in Sulla’s client’s chair, the doughty old man eyed his host’s fair countenance sourly through clear green orbs which gave the lie to the lines upon his face, the hairlessness of his skull. And wished, wished, wished that he could have stayed away, that he didn’t have to beggar his pride to deal with this hideously farcical situation.
“I imagine you know why I’m here, Lucius Cornelius,” said Scaurus, chin up, eyes direct.
“I believe I do,” said Sulla, and said no more.
“I have come to apologize for the conduct of my wife, and to assure you that, having spoken to you, I will proceed to make it impossible for my wife to embarrass you further.’’ There! It was out. And he was still alive, hadn’t died of shame. But at the back of Sulla’s calm dispassionate gaze he fancied he discerned a faint contempt; imaginary, perhaps, but it was that which turned Scaurus into Sulla’s enemy.
“I’m very sorry, Marcus Aemilius.” Say something, Sulla! Make it easier for the old fool! Don’t leave him sitting there with his pride in tatters! Remember what Aurelia said! But the words refused to come out. They milled inchoate within his mind and left his tongue a thing of stone, silent.
“It will be better for everyone concerned if you leave Rome. Take yourself off to Spain,” Scaurus said finally. “I hear that Lucius Cornelius Dolabella can do with competent help.”
Sulla blinked with exaggerated surprise. “Can he? I hadn’t realized things were so serious! However, Marcus Aemilius, it isn’t possible for me to uproot myself and go to Further Spain. I’ve been in the Senate now for nine years, it’s time I sought election as a praetor.”
Scaurus swallowed, but strove to continue seeming pleasant. “Not this year, Lucius Cornelius,” he said gently. “Next year, or the year after. This year you must leave Rome.”
“Marcus Aemilius, I have done nothing wrong!” Yes, you have, Sulla! What you are doing at this very moment is wrong, you’re treading all over him! “I am three years past the age for a praetor, my time grows short. I shall stand this year, which means I must stay in Rome.”
“Reconsider, please,” said Scaurus, rising to his feet.
“I cannot, Marcus Aemilius.”
“If you stand, Lucius Cornelius, I assure you, you won’t get in. Nor will you get in next year, or the year after that, or the year after that,” said Scaurus evenly. “So much I promise you. Believe my promise! Leave Rome.”
“I repeat, Marcus Aemilius, I am very sorry. But remain in Rome to stand for praetor, I must,” said Sulla.
And so it had all fallen out. Injured in both auctoritas and dignitas though he may have been, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus Princeps Senatus was still able to marshal more than enough influence to ensure that Sulla was not elected a praetor. Other, lesser men saw their names entered on the fasti; nonentities, mediocrities, fools. But praetors nonetheless.
*
It was from his niece Aurelia that Publius Rutilius Rufus learned the true story, and he in turn had passed the true story on to Gaius Marius. That Scaurus Princeps Senatus had set his face against Sulla’s becoming a praetor was obvious to everyone; the reason why was less obvious. Some maintained it was because of Dalmatica’s pathetic crush on Sulla, but after much discussion, it was generally felt this was too slight an explanation. Having given her ample time to see the error of her ways for herself (he said), Scaurus then dealt with the girl (kindly yet firmly, he said), and made no secret of it among his friends and in the Forum.
“Poor little thing, it was bound to happen,” he said warmly to several senators, making sure there were plenty more drifting in the background well within hearing distance. “I could wish she had picked someone other than a mere creature of Gaius Marius’s, but ... He’s a pretty fellow, I suppose.”
It was very well done, so well done that the Forum experts and the members of the Senate decided the real reason behind Scaurus’s opposition to Sulla’s candidacy lay in Sulla’s known association with Gaius Marius. For Gaius Marius, having been consul an unprecedented six times, was in eclipse. His best days were in the past, he couldn’t even gather sufficient support to stand for election as censor. Which meant that Gaius Marius, the so-called Third Founder of Rome, would never join the ranks of the most exalted consulars, all of whom had been censors. Gaius Marius was a spent force in Rome’s scheme of things, a curiosity more than a threat, a man who wasn’t cheered by anyone higher than the Third Class.
Rutilius Rufus poured himself more wine. “Do you really intend to go to Pessinus?” he asked of Marius.
“Why not?”
“Why so? I mean, I could understand Delphi, or Olympia, or even Dodona. But Pessinus! Stuck out there in the middle of Anatolia — in Phrygia! The most backward, superstition-riddled, uncomfortable hole on earth! Not a decent drop of wine or a road better than a bridle track for hundreds of miles! Uncouth shepherds to right and to left, wild men from Galatia milling on the border! Really, Gaius Marius! Is it Battaces you’re anxious to see in his cloth-of-gold outfit with the jewels in his beard? Summon him to Rome again! I’m sure he’d be only too delighted to renew his acquaintance with some of our more modern matrons— they haven’t stopped weeping since he left.”
Marius and Sulla were both laughing long before Rutilius Rufus reached the end of this impassioned speech; and suddenly the constraint of the evening was gone, they were at ease with each other and in perfect accord.
“You’re going to have a look at King Mithridates,” said Sulla, and didn’t make it a question.
The eyebrows writhed; Marius grinned. “What an extraordinary thing to say! Now why would you think that, Lucius Cornelius?”
“Because I know you, Gaius Marius. You’re an irreligious old fart! The only vows I’ve ever heard you make were all to do with kicking legionaries up the arse, or conceited tribunes of the soldiers up the same. There’s only one reason why you’d want to drag your fat old carcass to the Anatolian wilderness, and that’s to see for yourself what’s going on in Cappadocia, and just how much King Mithridates has to do with it,” said Sulla, smiling more happily than he had in many months.
Marius turned to Rutilius Rufus, startled. “I hope I’m not so transparent to everyone as I am to Lucius Cornelius!”
It was Rutilius Rufus’s turn to smile. “I very much doubt that anyone else will even guess,” he said. “I for one believed you—you irreligious old fart!”
Without volition (or so it seemed to Rutilius Rufus), Marius’s head turned to Sulla, and back they were discussing some grand new strategy. “The trouble is, our sources of information are completely unreliable,” Marius said eagerly. “I mean, who of any worth or ability has been out in that part of the world in years? New Men scrambled up as far as praetor—no one I’d rely on to make an accurate report. What do we really know?”
“Very little,” said Sulla, utterly absorbed. “There have been some inroads into Galatia by King Nicomedes of Bithynia on the west and Mithridates on the east. Then a few years ago old Nicomed
es married the mother of the little King of Cappadocia—she was the regent at the time, I think. And Nicomedes started calling himself King of Cappadocia.”
“That he did,” said Marius. “I suppose he thought it unfortunate when Mithridates instigated her murder and put the child back on the throne.’’ He laughed softly. ‘ ‘No more King Nicomedes of Cappadocia! I don’t know how he thought Mithridates would let him get away with it, considering that the murdered Queen was the sister of Mithridates! ‘‘
“And her son rules there still, as—oh, they have such exotic names! An Ariarathes?” asked Sulla.
“The seventh Ariarathes, to be exact,” said Marius.
“What do you think is going on?” asked Sulla, his curiosity whetted by Marius’s evident knowledge of these tortuous eastern relationships.
“I’m not sure. Probably nothing, beyond the normal squabbling between Nicomedes of Bithynia and Mithridates of Pontus. But I fancy he’s a most interesting fellow, young King Mithridates of Pontus. I’d like to meet him. After all, Lucius Cornelius, he’s not much more than thirty years of age, yet he’s gone from having no territory other than Pontus itself to owning the best part of the lands around the Euxine Sea. My skin is crawling. I have a feeling he’s going to mean trouble for Rome,” said Marius.
Deeming it high time he entered the conversation, Publius Rutilius Rufus put his empty wine cup down on the table in front of his couch with a loud bang, and seized his opportunity. “I suppose you mean Mithridates has his eye on our Roman Asia Province,” he said, nodding wisely. “Why wouldn’t he want it? So enormously rich! And the most civilized place on earth—well, it’s been Greek since before the Greeks were Greek! Homer lived and worked in our Asia Province, can you imagine it?”
“I’d probably find it easier to imagine it if you started to accompany yourself on a lyre,” said Sulla, laughing.
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