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

by Colleen McCullough

The breath Sulla drew in sobbed, the heart within his chest tripped and stammered. He stopped in his tracks, waited for Marius.

  “Lucius Cornelius.”

  “Gaius Marius.”

  Neither man moved to touch the other. Then Marius turned and ranged himself alongside Sulla and the two of them walked on, silent as the tomb. It was Marius who finally cleared his throat, Marius who could not bear these unspoken emotions.

  He said, “I suppose Lucius Julius is on his way to Aesernia?”

  “Yes.”

  “He ought to be on Crater Bay taking back Pompeii and Stabiae. Otacilius is building a nice little navy now he’s getting a few more recruits. The navy is always a bad last in the Senate’s order of preference. However, I hear the Senate is going to induct all of Rome’s able-bodied freedmen into a special force to garrison and protect the coasts of upper Campania and lower Latium. So Otacilius will be able to take all the current coastal militia into his navy.”

  Sulla grunted. “Huh! And when do the Conscript Fathers intend to get around to decreeing this?”

  “Who knows? At least they’ve started talking about it.”

  “Wonder of wonders!”

  “You sound incredibly bitter. Lucius Julius getting on your nerves? I’m not surprised.”

  “Yes, Gaius Marius, I am indeed bitter,” said Sulla calmly. “I’ve been walking up this beautiful road thinking about the fate of Fregellae, and the prospective fate of our present crop of enemy Italians. You see, Lucius Julius intends to legislate the Roman citizenship for all Italians who have remained peacefully inclined toward Rome. Isn’t that nice?”

  Marius’s step faltered for a moment, then resumed its rather ponderous rhythm. “Does he now? When? Before or after he dashes himself on the rocks of Aesernia?”

  “After.”

  “Makes you implore the gods to tell you what all the fighting is about, doesn’t it?” asked Marius, unconsciously echoing Sulla’s thoughts. A rumble of laughter came. “Still, I love to soldier, and that’s the truth. Hopefully there’s a battle or two left before the Senate and People of Rome completely crumble in their resolve! What a turnabout! And would that we might raise Marcus Livius Drusus from the dead. Then none of it need have happened. The Treasury would be full instead of emptier than a fool’s head, and the peninsula would be peacefully, happily, contentedly stuffed with legal Romans.”

  “Yes.”

  They fell silent, walked on into the shell of the Fregellae forum, where occasional columns and flights of steps leading up to nothing reared above the grass and flowers.

  “I have a job for you,” said Marius, sitting down on a block of stone. “Here, stand in the shade or sit down with me, Lucius Cornelius, do! Then take off that wretched hat so I can see what those eyes of yours contain.”

  Sulla moved into the shade obediently and obediently doffed his hat, but did not sit down, and did not speak.

  “No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve come to Fregellae to see you instead of waiting in Reate.”

  “I presume you don’t want me in Reate.”

  A laugh boomed. “Always up to my tricks, Lucius Cornelius, aren’t you? Quite right. I don’t want you in Reate.” The lingering grin disappeared. “But nor did I want to set my plans down in a letter. The fewer people who know what you’re going to be up to, the better. Not that I have any reason to assume there’s a spy in Lucius Julius’s command tent—just that I’m prudent.”

  “The only way to keep a secret is not to tell anybody.”

  “True, true.” Marius huffed so deeply that the straps and buckles of his cuirass groaned. “You, Lucius Cornelius, will leave the Via Latina here. You’ll head up the Liris toward Sora, where you will turn with the Liris and follow it to its sources. In other words, I want you on the southern side of the watershed, some few miles from the Via Valeria.”

  “So far I understand my part. What about yours?”

  “While you’re moving up the Liris, I’ll be marching from Reate toward the western pass on the Via Valeria. I intend to broach the road itself beyond Carseoli. That town is in ruins, and garrisoned by the enemy—Marrucini, my scouts tell me, commanded by Herius Asinius himself. If possible I’ll force a battle with him for possession of the Via Valeria before it enters the pass. At that stage I want you level with me—but south of the watershed.”

  “South of the watershed without the enemy’s knowledge,” said Sulla, beginning to lose his coolness.

  “Precisely. That means you’ll kill everyone you see. It’s so well known that I lie to the north of the Via Valeria that I’m hoping it won’t occur to either the Marrucini or the Marsi that there might be an army coming up on the southern flank. I’ll try to focus all their attention on my own movements.” Marius smiled. “You, of course, are with Lucius Julius on your way to Aesernia.”

  “You haven’t lost the gift of generaling, Gaius Marius.”

  The fierce brown eyes flashed. “I hope not! Because, Lucius Cornelius, I tell you plainly—if I lose the gift of generaling, there’ll be no one in this benighted conflagration to take my place. We’ll end in granting the citizenship on the battlefield to those in arms against us.”

  Part of Sulla wanted to pursue the citizenship tack, but the dominant part had other ideas. “What about me?” he blurted. “I can general.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you can,” said Marius in soothing tones. “I don’t deny that for a moment. But generaling isn’t in your very bones, Lucius Cornelius.”

  “Good generaling can be learned,” Sulla said stubbornly.

  “Good generaling can indeed be learned. As you have done. But if it isn’t in your very bones, Lucius Cornelius, you can never rise above mere good generaling,” said Marius, utterly oblivious to the fact that what he was saying was derogatory. “Sometimes mere good generaling isn’t good enough. Inspired generaling is called for. And that’s either in the bones, or absent.”

  “One day,” said Sulla pensively, “Rome will find herself without you, Gaius Marius. And then—why, we shall see! I’ll be holding the high command.”

  Still Marius failed to understand, still he didn’t divine what lay in Sulla’s thoughts. Instead, he chortled merrily. “Well, Lucius Cornelius, we’ll just have to hope that when that day comes, all Rome will need is a good general. Won’t we?”

  “Whatever you say,” said Lucius Cornelius Sulla.

  *

  The galling factor was that—of course!—Marius’s plan was perfect. Sulla and his two legions penetrated as far as Sora without encountering any enemy at all, then—in what amounted to no more than a skirmish—he defeated a small force of Picentes under Titus Herennius. From Sora to the sources of the Liris he met only Latin and Sabine farmers who greeted his appearance with such transparent joy that he refrained from carrying out Marius’s orders and killing them. Those Picentes who had escaped at Sora were more likely by far to report his presence, but he had given them the impression that his was a mission to Sora given to him by Lucius Caesar, and that he was marching then to join Lucius Caesar east of the Melfa Gorge. Hopefully the remnants of Titus Herennius’s Picentes and the Paeligni were lying in wait for Sulla in quite the wrong place.

  Marius, Sulla knew from constant communication, had done as he promised and broached the Via Valeria beyond Carseoli. Herius Asinius and his Marrucini had contested the road on the spot, and gone down to crushing defeat after Marius tricked them into thinking he didn’t want a battle there. Herius Asinius himself perished, as did most of his army. Thus Marius marched into the western pass under no threat at all, now heading for Alba Fucentia with four legions comprised of men sure of victory—how could they possibly lose with the old Arpinate fox in their lead? They were blooded, and blooded well.

  Sulla and his two legions shadowed Marius along the Via Valeria until the watershed separating them flattened out into the Marsic upland basin around Lake Fucinus; but even then Sulla kept ten miles between himself and Marius, skulking in a surprisingly easy con
cealment. For this fact, he had cause to be grateful to the Marsians’ love of making their own wine, despite the handicaps of the area. South of the Via Valeria the country was solid vineyard, a vast expanse of grapes grown inside small high-walled enclosures to protect them from the bitter winds which swept off the mountains at just that time of year when the tender grape florets were forming and the insects needed calm air to pollinate. Now Sulla did kill as he went, women and children in the main; all save the oldest men had gone from the lakeside hamlets and farms to serve in the army.

  He knew the very moment when Marius joined battle with the Marsi, for the wind that day was blowing from the north, and carried the sounds across the walled vineyards so clearly that Sulla’s men fancied the fight was actually going on among the grapes. A courier had come at dawn to tell Sulla it was probably going to be today; so Sulla put his forces in an eight-deep line beneath the ten-foot fences of the vineyards, and waited.

  Sure enough, fleeing Marsi began tumbling over the stone ramparts perhaps four hours after the sounds began—and tumbled straight onto the drawn swords of Sulla’s legionaries, thirsty for a share of the action. In some places there was hard fighting—these were despairing men—but nowhere did Sulla stand in any danger.

  As usual I am Gaius Marius’s skilled lackey, Sulla thought, standing on high ground to watch. His was the mind conceived the strategy, his the hand directed the tactics, his the will finished it successfully. And here am I on the wrong side of some wretched wall, picking up his leavings like the hungry man I am. How well he knows himself—and how well he knows me.

  Wishing he didn’t have to rejoice, Sulla mounted his mule after his share of the fighting was over and rode the long way round to inform Gaius Marius on the Via Valeria that all had gone exactly as planned, that the Marsi involved were virtually extinct.

  *

  “I faced none other than Silo himself!” said Marius in his customary post-battle roar, clapping Sulla on the back and leading him into the command tent with an arm about his valued lieutenant’s shoulders. “Mind you, they were napping,” he said gleefully, “I suppose because this to them is home. I burst on them like a thunderclap, Lucius Cornelius! It seems they never dreamed Asinius might lose! No one came to tell them he had; all they knew was that he was moving because I had moved from Reate at last. So there I was coming round a sharp corner, straight into their faces. They were marching to reinforce Asinius. I fetched up just too far away to be obliged to join battle, formed my men into square, and looked as if I was prepared to fight defensively, but not to attack.

  “ ‘If you’re such a great general, Gaius Marius, come and fight me!’ shouted Silo, sitting on a horse.

  “ ‘If you’re such a great general, Quintus Poppaedius, make me!’ I shouted back.

  “We’ll never know what he might have intended to do after that, because his men took the bit between their teeth and charged without his giving the command. Well, they made it easy for me. I know what to do, Lucius Cornelius. But Silo doesn’t. I say doesn’t, as he got away unharmed. When his men broke in panic he turned his horse to face east and galloped off. I doubt he’ll stop until he reaches Mutilus. Anyway, I forced the Marsi to retreat in one direction only—through the vineyards. Knowing you were there to finish them off on the other side. And that was that.”

  “It was very well done, Gaius Marius,” said Sulla with complete sincerity.

  And so they settled to a victory feast, Marius and Sulla and their deputies—and Young Marius, glowing with pride in his father, whom he now served as a cadet. Oh, there’s a pup bears watching! thought Sulla, and refused to watch him.

  The battle was fought all over again, almost at greater length in time; but eventually, as the level in the wine amphorae grew ever lower, the talk turned inevitably to politics. The projected legislation of Lucius Caesar was the subject, coming as a shock to Marius’s juniors; he hadn’t told them of his conversation with Sulla in Fregellae. Reactions were mixed, yet against this huge concession. These were the soldiers, these were men who had been fighting now for six months, seen thousands of their comrades perish—and felt besides that the dodderers and cravens in Rome hadn’t given them a good chance to get into stride, to start winning. Those safe in Rome were apostrophized as a gaggle of dried-up old Vestal Virgins, with Philippus coming in for the strongest criticism, Lucius Caesar not far behind.

  “The Julii Caesares are all over-bred bundles of nerves,” said Marius, face purple-red. “A pity we’ve had a Julius Caesar as senior consul in this crisis. I knew he’d break.”

  “You sound, Gaius Marius, as if you’d rather we conceded absolutely nothing to the Italians,” said Sulla.

  “I would rather we didn’t,” Marius said. “Until it came to open war it was different. But once a people declares itself an enemy of Rome’s, it’s an enemy of mine too. Forever.”

  “So I feel,” said Sulla. “However, if Lucius Julius does succeed in convincing Senate and People to pass his law, it will decrease the chance of Etruria’s and Umbria’s going over. I’d heard there were fresh rumblings in both places.”

  “Indeed. Which is why Lucius Cato Licinianus and Aulus Plotius have peeled Sextus Julius’s troops away from him and gone—Plotius to Umbria and Cato Licinianus to Etruria,” said Marius.

  “What’s Sextus Julius doing, then?”

  Young Marius answered, very loudly. “He’s recuperating in Rome. ‘A very nasty chest’ was how my mother put it in her last letter.’’

  Sulla’s look should have squashed him, yet didn’t. Even when the commander-in-chief was one’s father, one didn’t butt into the conversation if one was only a contubernalis!

  “No doubt the Etrurian campaign will do Cato Licinianus’s chances of winning a consulship for next year the world of good,” said Sulla. “Providing he does well. I imagine he will.”

  “So do I,” said Marius, belching. “It’s a pea-sized undertaking—suitable for a pea like Cato Licinianus.”

  Sulla grinned. “What, Gaius Marius, not impressed?”

  Marius blinked. “Are you?”

  “Anything but.” He had had more than enough wine; Sulla switched to water. “In the meantime, what do we do with ourselves? September is a market interval old, and I’ll be due to go back to Campania fairly soon. I’d like to make the most of what time I have left, if that’s possible.”

  “I can’t believe Lucius Julius let Egnatius fool him in the Melfa Gorge!” Young Marius interrupted.

  “You’re not old enough, my boy, to comprehend the extent of men’s idiocy,” said Marius, approving of the comment rather than disapproving of its maker making it. He turned then to Sulla. “We can’t hope for anything from Lucius Julius now that he’s back in Teanum Sidicinum a second time with a quarter of his army dead, so why return in a hurry, Lucius Cornelius? To hold Lucius Julius’s hand? I imagine there are plenty doing that already. I suggest we go on together to Alba Fucentia,” he said, ending with a peculiar sound somewhere between a laugh and a retch.

  Sulla stiffened. “Are you all right?” he asked sharply.

  For a moment Marius’s color went from puce to ashes. Then he recovered; the laugh was all a laugh should be. “After such a day, perfect, Lucius Cornelius! Now as I was saying, we’ll go on to relieve Alba Fucentia, after which— well, I fancy a stroll down through Samnium, don’t you? We’ll leave Sextus Julius to invest Asculum Picentum while we bait the Samnite bull. Investing cities is a bore, not my style.” He giggled tipsily. “Wouldn’t it be nice to show up in Teanum Sidicinum with Aesernia in the sinus of your toga as a present for Lucius Julius? How grateful he’d be!”

  “How grateful indeed, Gaius Marius.”

  The party broke up. Sulla and Young Marius helped Marius to his bed, settled him on it without fussing. Then Young Marius escaped with a vindictive look for Sulla, who had lingered to examine the limp mountain on the couch more closely.

  “Lucius Cornelius,” said Marius, slurring his words, “come on
your own in the morning to wake me, would you? I want some private talk with you. Can’t tonight. Oh, the wine!”

  “Sleep well, Gaius Marius. In the morning it shall be.”

  But in the morning it was not to be. When Sulla—none too well himself—ventured into the back compartment of the command tent, he found the mountain on the bed exactly as it had been the night before. Frowning, he approached quickly, feeling the beginnings of a horrible prickling. No, not fear that Marius was dead; the noise of his breathing had been audible from the front section of the tent. Now, gazing down, Sulla saw the right hand feebly plucking, picking at the sheet, and saw too Marius’s goggling eyes alive with a terror so profound it imitated madness. From slumped cheek to flaccid foot his left side was stilled, felled, immobile. Down had come the forest giant without a murmur, powerless to fend off a blow not seen or felt until the deed was over.

  “Stroke,” mumbled Marius.

  Sulla’s hand went out of its own volition to caress the sweat-soaked hair; now he could be loved. Now he was no more. “Oh, my poor old fellow!” Sulla lowered his cheek against Marius’s, turning his lips into the wet trickle of Marius’ s tears. “ My poor old one! You’re done for at last.”

  Out came the words immediately, hideously distorted, yet quite distinct enough to hear with faces pressed together.

  “Not—done—yet... Seven—times.”

  Sulla reared back as if Marius had risen from the couch and struck him. Then, even as he scrubbed his palm across his own tears, he uttered a shrill little paroxysm of laughter, laughter ending as abruptly as it had begun. “If I have anything to do with it, Gaius Marius, you’re done for!”

  “Not—done for,” said Marius, his still intelligent eyes no longer terrified; now they were angry. “Seven—times.”

  In one stride Sulla arrived at the flap dividing front room from back, calling for help as if the Hound of Hades was snapping many-headed at his heels.

  Only after every last army surgeon had come and gone and Marius had been made as comfortable as possible did Sulla call a meeting of those who milled outside the tent, barred from entering it by Young Marius, weeping desolately.