“Do you have proof?” asked Pompeius Rufus sternly.
“I have proof.”
“Then give me the gist of it.”
“I will not, Quintus Pompeius. In the court I will do all that is necessary. This is a capital charge. I am not appealing for the lodgment of a fine, nor am I obliged under the law to divulge my case to you,” said Censorinus, fingering the gem inside his toga, too precious to be left at home, but too noticeable to be displayed in public.
“Very well,” said Pompeius Rufus stiffly, “I will tell the President of the quaestio de maiestate to assemble his court by the Pool of Curtius, three days hence.”
Pompeius Rufus watched Censorinus almost skip across the lower Forum toward the Argiletum, then snapped his fingers to his assistant, a junior senator of the Fannius family. “Mind the shop,” he said, getting to his feet. “I have an errand to run.”
He located Lucius Cornelius Sulla in a tavern on the Via Nova, not such an arduous task as it might have seemed; he knew whom to ask, as any good urban praetor did. Sulla’s drinking companion was none other than Scaurus Princeps Senatus, one of the few in the Senate who was interested in what Sulla had accomplished in the East. They were at a small table at the back of the tavern, which was a popular meeting place for those august enough to belong to the Senate, yet the proprietor’s eyes bulged when a third toga praetexta walked in—the Princeps Senatus and two urban praetors, no less! Wait until his friends heard about this!
“Wine and water, Cloatius,” said Pompeius Rufus briefly as he passed the counter, “and make it a good vintage!”
“The wine or the water?” asked Publius Cloatius innocently.
“Both, you pile of rubbish, or I’ll hale you into court,” said Pompeius Rufus with a grin as he joined the other two.
“Censorinus,” said Sulla to Pompeius Rufus.
“Right in one,” said the urban praetor. “You must have better sources than I do, for I swear it came as a complete surprise to me.”
“I do have good sources,” said Sulla, smiling; he liked the man from Picenum. “Treason, is it?”
“Treason. He says he has proof.”
“So did those who convicted Publius Rutilius Rufus.”
“Well, I for one will believe it when the streets of Barduli are paved with gold,” said Scaurus, picking the poorest town in all of Italy as his example.
“So will I,” said Sulla.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Pompeius Rufus, taking an empty cup from the tavern keeper and splashing wine and water into it. He grimaced, looked up. “They’re both terrible vintages!” he cried. “Worm!”
“Try and find better anywhere else on the Via Nova,” said Publius Cloatius without umbrage, and slid off regretfully to a spot where he couldn’t hear what was said.
“I can deal with it,” said Sulla, who didn’t seem disturbed.
“I’ve set the hearing for three days hence, by the Pool of Curtius. Luckily we’re now under the lex Livia, so you’ll have half a jury of senators—which is very much better than a jury composed entirely of knights. How they hate the idea of a senator getting rich at other people’s expense! All right for them to do it, however,” said Pompeius Rufus, disgusted.
“Why the treason court rather than the bribery court?” asked Scaurus. “If he alleges you took a bribe, then it’s bribery.”
“Censorinus alleges that the bribe was taken as payment for betrayal of our intentions and movements in the East,” said the urban praetor.
“I brought back a treaty,” said Sulla to Pompeius Rufus.
“That he did! An enormously impressive feat,” said Scaurus with great warmth.
“Is the Senate ever going to acknowledge it?” asked Sulla.
“The Senate will, Lucius Cornelius, you have the word of an Aemilius Scaurus on it.”
“I heard you forced both the Parthians and the King of Armenia to sit lower than you did,” chuckled the urban praetor. “Good for you, Lucius Cornelius! Those eastern potentates need putting down!”
“Oh, I believe Lucius Cornelius intends to follow in the footsteps of Popillius Laenas,” said Scaurus, smiling. “The next thing, he’ll be drawing circles round their feet too.” He frowned. “What I want to know is, where could Censorinus have obtained information about anything that happened on the Euphrates?”
Sulla shifted uneasily, not quite sure whether Scaurus was still of the opinion that Mithridates of Pontus was harmless. “I think he’s acting as an agent for one of the eastern kings.”
“Mithridates of Pontus,” said Scaurus immediately.
“What, are you disillusioned?” asked Sulla, grinning.
“I like to believe the best of everybody, Lucius Cornelius. But a fool I am not,” said Scaurus, getting up. He threw a denarius at the proprietor, who fielded it deftly. “Give them some more of your brilliant vintages, Cloatius!”
“If it’s all that bad, why aren’t you at home drinking your Chian and your Falernian?” yelled Publius Cloatius after Scaurus’s vanishing back, his humor unimpaired.
His only answer was Scaurus’s finger poking holes in the air, which made Cloatius laugh hilariously. “Awful old geezer!” he said, bringing more wine to the table. “What would we do without him?”
Sulla and Pompeius Rufus settled deeper into their chairs.
“Aren’t you on your tribunal today?” asked Sulla.
“I’ve left young Fannius in charge; it will do him good to battle the litigious-minded populace of Rome,’’ said Pompeius Rufus.
They sipped their wine (which really was not poor quality, as everyone knew) in silence for a few moments, not feeling awkward—more that when Scaurus left any group, it suffered.
Finally Pompeius Rufus said, “Are you hoping to stand for the consulship at the end of this year, Lucius Cornelius?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sulla, looking serious. “I had hoped to, in the belief that the presentation to Rome of a formal treaty binding the King of the Parthians in an agreement of great benefit to Rome would create quite a stir here! Instead—not a ripple on the Forum puddle, let alone the Senate cesspool! I may as well have stayed in Rome and taken lessons in lascivious dancing—it would have created more talk about me! So it has become a decision as to whether I think I stand a chance to get in if I bribe the electorate. I’m inclined to think I’d be wasting my money. People like Rutilius Lupus can offer ten times as much to our wonderful little lot of voters.”
“I want to be consul,” said Pompeius Rufus, equally seriously, “but I doubt my chances, being a Picentine.”
Sulla opened his eyes wide. “They voted you in at the top of the praetors’ poll, Quintus Pompeius! That usually counts for something, you know!”
“You were voted in at the top of the same poll two years ago,” said Pompeius Rufus, “yet you don’t consider your chances good, do you? And if a patrician Cornelius who has been praetor urbanus rates his chances nonexistent, what do you think are the chances of—well, not a New Man, precisely—a man from Picenum?”
“True, I am a patrician Cornelius. But my last name isn’t Scipio, and Aemilius Paullus wasn’t my granddad. I was never a great speaker, and until I became urban praetor, the Forum frequenters didn’t know me from a Magna Mater eunuch. I pinned all my hopes on that historic treaty with the Parthians and the fact that I led Rome’s first army ever to cross the Euphrates. Only to find the whole Forum far more fascinated with the doings of Drusus.”
“He’ll be consul when he decides to run.”
“He couldn’t miss if they set Scipio Africanus and Scipio Aemilianus up against him. Mind you, Quintus Pompeius, I find myself fascinated with what he’s doing.”
“So am I, Lucius Cornelius.”
“Do you think he’s right?”
“Yes.”
“Good! So do I.”
Another silence fell, broken only by the noise of Publius Cloatius serving four newcomers, who eyed the purple-bordered togas in the
far corner with awe.
“How about,” began Pompeius Rufus, turning his pewter cup slowly between his hands, and looking down into it, “your waiting a couple more years, and running in tandem with me? We’re both urban praetors, we both have good army records, we’re both senior in years, we’re both able to do a little bribing, at least... The voters like a pair standing together, it bodes well for consular relations during the year. Together, I think we stand a better chance than either of us does alone. What do you say, Lucius Cornelius?”
Sulla’s eyes rested upon Pompeius Rufus’s ruddy face, his bright blue eyes, his regular and slightly Celtic features, his shock of curling red hair. “I say,” he said deliberately, “that we’d make a prime pair! Two red-heads from opposite ends of the senatorial array, impressive to look at—a matching pair! You know, we’d appeal to those whimsical, cantankerous mentulae! They love a good joke, and what better joke than two red-haired consuls of the same height and the same build, yet out of totally different stables?” He held out his hand. “We’ll do it, my friend! Luckily neither of us has a grey hair to spoil the effect, nor is either of us balding!”
Eager to show his pleasure, Pompeius Rufus squeezed Sulla’s hand, beaming. “It’s a deal, Lucius Cornelius!”
“It’s a deal, Quintus Pompeius!” Sulla blinked, visited with an inspiration evoked by Pompeius Rufus’s enormous wealth. “Do you have a son?” he asked.
“I do.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-one this year.”
“Contracted to a marriage?”
“No, not yet.”
“I have a daughter. Patrician on both sides. She’ll be eighteen the June after we stand for our joint consulships. Would you consent to a marriage between my daughter and your son in Quinctilis, three years from now?”
“I would indeed, Lucius Cornelius!”
“She’s well dowered. Her grandfather transferred her mother’s fortune to her before he died, some forty talents of silver. A bit over a million sesterces. Is that satisfactory?”
Pompeius Rufus nodded, well pleased. “We’ll start talking in the Forum about our joint candidature now, shall we?”
“An excellent idea! Best to get the electors so used to us that when the time comes they’ll vote for us automatically.”
“Ahah!” rumbled a voice from the door.
In walked Gaius Marius, sweeping past the gaping drinkers at a table near the counter without acknowledging their existence.
“Our revered Princeps Senatus said I’d find you here, Lucius Cornelius,” Marius said, sitting down. He turned his head toward Cloatius, hovering nearby. “Your usual vinegar will do, Cloatius.”
“So I should think,” said Publius Cloatius, discovering that the wine jug on the table was almost empty. “What do Italians know about wine, anyway?”
Marius grinned. “I piss on you, Cloatius! Mind your manners—and your tongue.”
The pleasantries disposed of, Marius settled to business, rather glad Pompeius Rufus was there.
“I want to find out how each of you stands on Marcus Livius’s new batch of laws,” he said.
“We’re both of the same opinion,” said Sulla, who had called to see Marius several times since his return, only to find the Great Man unavailable. He had no reason to suppose this treatment was purposive—indeed, common sense said it was not, that he had simply chosen his times badly. Yet he had gone away on the last occasion vowing he would not call again. Thus he had not told Marius what had happened in the East.
“And that opinion is?” asked Marius, apparently unaware he had offended Sulla.
“He’s right.”
“Good.” Marius leaned back to permit Publius Cloatius access to the table. “He needs every iota of support he can get for the land bill, and I’ve pledged myself to canvass on his behalf.”
“You’ll help,” said Sulla, and could find nothing else to say.
Marius now turned to Pompeius Rufus. “You’re a good urban praetor, Quintus Pompeius. When are you going to stand for consul?”
Pompeius Rufus looked excited. “That’s what Lucius Cornelius and I have just been talking about!” he cried. “We intend to stand together three years from now.”
“Clever!” said Marius appreciatively, seeing the point at once. “A perfect pair!” He laughed. “Keep that resolution, don’t dissolve your partnership. You’ll both get in easily.”
“We believe so,” said Pompeius Rufus contentedly. “In fact, we’ve sealed it with a marriage contract.”
Up went Marius’s right eyebrow. “Oh?”
“My daughter, his son,” said Sulla, a little defensively; why was it that Marius could unsettle him, when no one else had that power? Was it the man’s character, or his own insecurities?
Out came a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, splendid! Oh, well done!” Marius roared. “That solves the family dilemma superbly! From Julia through Aelia to Aurelia, they’ll be pleased.”
Sulla’s fine brows knitted. “What on earth do you mean?”
“My son and your daughter,” said Marius, tactless as ever. “It appears they like each other too much. But old dead Caesar said none of the cousins should marry—and I must say I agree with him. Which hasn’t stopped my son and your daughter making all sorts of absurd promises to each other.”
This was a shock to Sulla, who had never dreamed of such a union, and associated so little with his daughter that she had found no opportunity to talk to him about Young Marius. “Oho! I am away too much, Gaius Marius, I’ve been saying it for years.”
Pompeius Rufus listened to this exchange in some dismay, and now cleared his throat. “If there’s any difficulty, Lucius Cornelius, don’t worry about my son,” he said diffidently.
“No difficulty at all, Quintus Pompeius,” said Sulla firmly, “They’re first cousins and they’ve grown up together, no more than that. As you may have gathered from Gaius Marius, it was never our intention to see that particular match. The agreement I’ve made with you today scotches it nicely. Don’t you concur, Gaius Marius?”
“Indeed, Lucius Cornelius. Too much patrician blood, and first cousins into the bargain. Old dead Caesar said no.”
“Do you have a wife in mind for Young Marius?” asked Sulla curiously.
“I think so. Quintus Mucius Scaevola has a daughter who will come of age in four or five years. I’ve made overtures, and he isn’t averse.” Marius laughed irrepressibly. “I may be an Italian hayseed with no Greek, Lucius Cornelius, but it’s a rare Roman aristocrat who can resist the size of the fortune Young Marius will inherit one day!”
“Too true!” said Sulla, laughing just as hard. “So it only remains for me to find a wife for Young Sulla—and not one of Aurelia’s daughters!”
“How about one of Caepio’s daughters?” asked Marius, full of mischief. “Think of all that gold!”
“It’s a thought, Gaius Marius. There are two of them, aren’t there? Living with Marcus Livius?”
“That’s right. Julia was rather keen on the elder one for Young Marius, but I’m of the opinion that a Mucia will be much better for him politically.’’ For once in his life, Marius dredged up a morsel of diplomacy. “You’re differently situated, Lucius Cornelius. A Servilia Caepionis would be ideal.”
“I agree, she would. I’ll see to it.”
*
But the question of a wife for Young Sulla did not remain in Sulla’s mind beyond the moment in which he informed his daughter that she was to be betrothed to the son of Quintus Pompeius Rufus. Cornelia Sulla demonstrated only too clearly that she was Julilla’s child by opening her mouth and screaming, and going on screaming.
“Screech all you like,” said Sulla coldly, “it won’t make any difference, my girl. You’ll do as you’re told and marry whomsoever I say you’ll marry.”
“Go away, Lucius Cornelius!” cried Aelia, wringing her hands. “Your son is asking to see you. Leave me to deal with Cornelia Sulla, please!”
So Sulla went to see his son, still angry.
Young Sulla’s cold had not improved; the boy was still in bed, still plagued by aches and pains, still coughing up muck.
“This has got to stop, lad,” said Sulla lightly, sitting on the edge of the bed and kissing his son’s hot brow. “I know the weather is cold, but this room isn’t.”
“Who’s screaming?” asked Young Sulla, breath rasping.
“Your sister, Mormolyce take her!”
“Why?” asked Young Sulla, who was very fond of Cornelia Sulla.
“I’ve just told her that she’s to marry the son of Quintus Pompeius Rufus. But it appears she thought she was going to marry her cousin Young Marius.”
“Oh! We all thought she was going to marry Young Marius!” exclaimed Sulla’s son, shocked.
“No one ever suggested it, no one ever wanted it. Your avus Caesar was against marriage between any of you. Gaius Marius agrees. And so do I agree.” Sulla frowned. “Does this mean you have ideas of marrying one of the Julias?’’
“What, Lia or Ju-ju?” Young Sulla laughed merrily until the activity provoked a bout of coughing only assuaged when he brought up a mass of foul-smelling sputum. “No, tata,” he said when he could, “I can’t think of anything worse! Whom am I to marry?”
“I don’t know, my son. One thing I promise you, how-ever. I will ask you first if you like her,” said Sulla.
“You didn’t ask Cornelia.”
Sulla shrugged. “She’s a girl. Girls don’t get offered choices or favors. They just do as they’re told. The only reason a paterfamilias puts up with the expense of girls is so that he can use them to advance his own career, or his son’s. Otherwise, why feed and clothe them for eighteen years? They have to be well dowered, yet nothing comes back to the father’s family. No, my son, a girl’s only use is for advantage. Though, listening to your sister scream, I’m not sure we didn’t do things better in the old days, when we just chucked girl-babies in the Tiber.”
“It doesn’t seem fair, tata.”
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