Marius shook with laughter. “I couldn’t agree more. If I can believe my wife, such indeed are the circumstances. That fool Cato engineered a defeat for himself! I imagine his two legates were dead by then, and I can only assume that his tribunes were off carrying messages around the field—the wrong messages, probably. Certainly the only staff Cato the Consul had with him were cadets. And it was left to my son the cadet to advise the general that he must retreat. Cato said no, and called Young Marius the son of an Italian traitor. Whereupon—according to another cadet— Young Marius put two feet of good Roman sword into the consul’s backhand ordered the retreat.”
“Oh, well done, Gaius Marius!”
“So I think—in one way. In another, I’m sorry that he did it while Cato’s back was turned. But I know my son. Temper, not lack of a sense of honor. I wasn’t home enough when he was little to drub the temper out of him. Besides, he was too smart to show me his temper. Or show his mother.’’
“How many witnesses, Gaius Marius?”
“Only the one, as far as I can gather. But I won’t know until I see Lucius Cornelius Cinna, who is now in command. Naturally Young Marius must answer charges. If the witness sticks to his story, then my son will face flogging and beheading. To kill the consul is not merely murder. It’s sacrilege too.”
“Tch, tch,” said Lucius Decumius, and said no more.
Of course he knew why he had been asked along on this journey to sort out a hideous confusion. What fascinated him was that Gaius Marius had sent for him. Gaius Marius! The straightest, the most honorable man Lucius Decumius knew. What had Lucius Sulla said years ago? That even when he took a crooked path, Gaius Marius trod it straightly. Yet tonight it looked very much as if Gaius Marius had elected to walk a crooked path crookedly. Not in character. There were other ways. Ways he would have thought Gaius Marius would at least try first.
Then Lucius Decumius shrugged. Gaius Marius was a father, after all. Only had one chick. Very precious. Not a bad boy either, once one got beneath the cocksure arrogance. It must be hard to be the son of a Great Man. Especially for one who didn’t have the sinews. Oh, he was brave enough. Had a mind too. But he’d never be a truly Great Man. That needed a hard life. Harder than the one Young Marius had experienced. Such a lovely mother! Now if he’d had a mother like Young Caesar’s mother—it might be different. She’d made absolutely sure Young Caesar had a hard life. Never allowed him a whisker of latitude. Nor was there much money in that family.
Flat until now, the land began suddenly to rise steeply, and the tired mules wanted to halt. Lucius Decumius touched them with his whip, called them a few frightful names and forced them onward, his wrists steel.
Fifteen years ago Lucius Decumius had appointed himself the protector of Young Caesar’s mother, Aurelia. At about the same time he had also found himself an additional source of income. By birth he was a true Roman, by tribe a member of urban Palatina, by census a member of the Fourth Class, and by profession the caretaker of a crossroads college located within Aurelia’s apartment building. A smallish man of indeterminate coloring and anonymous features, his unprepossessing exterior and lack of erudition hid an unshakable faith in his own intelligence and strength of mind; he ran his sodality like a general.
Officially sanctioned by the urban praetor, the duties of the college involved care of the crossroads outside its premises, from sweeping and cleaning the area, through making sure the shrine to the Lares of the Crossroads was duly honored and the huge fountain supplying water to the district flowed constantly into a pristine basin, to supervising the festivities of the annual Compitalia. Membership in the college ran the full gamut of the local male residents, from Second Class to Head Count among the Romans, and from foreigners like Jews and Syrians to Greek freedmen and slaves; the Second and Third Classes, however, made no contribution to the college beyond donatives generous enough to avoid attendance. Those who patronized the surprisingly clean premises of the college were workingmen who spent their day off sitting talking and drinking cheap wine. Every workingman—free or slave—had each eighth day off work, though not all on the same day; a man’s day off was the eighth day after he had commenced his job. Thus the men inside the college on any particular day would be a different lot from those present on other days. Whenever Lucius Decumius announced there was something to be done, every man present would down his wine and obey the orders of the college caretaker.
The brotherhood under the aegis of Lucius Decumius had activities quite divorced from care of the crossroads. When Aurelia’s uncle and stepfather, Marcus Aurelius Cotta, had bought her an insula as a means of fruitfully investing her dowry, that redoubtable young woman had soon discovered that she housed a group of men who preyed upon the local shopkeepers and businessfolk by selling them protection from vandalism and violence. She had soon put a stop to that—or rather, Lucius Decumius and his brothers had shifted their protection agency further afield to areas where Aurelia neither knew the victims nor traversed the neighborhood.
At about the same time as Aurelia had acquired her insula, Lucius Decumius had found an avocation which suited his nature as much as it did his purse: he became an assassin. Though his deeds were rumored rather than recounted, those who knew him believed implicitly that he had been responsible for many political and commercial deaths, foreign and domestic. That no one ever bothered him—let alone apprehended him—was due to his skill and daring. There was never any evidence. Yet the nature of this lucrative avocation was common knowledge in the Subura; as Lucius Decumius said himself, if no one knew you were an assassin no one ever offered you any jobs. Some deeds he disclaimed, and again he was implicitly believed. The murder of Asellio, he had been heard to say, was the work of a bungling amateur who had put Rome in peril by killing an augur in the midst of his duties and while wearing his sacerdotal regalia. And though it was his considered opinion that Metellus Numidicus Piggle-wiggle had been poisoned, Lucius Decumius announced to all and sundry that poison was a woman’s tool, beneath his notice.
He had fallen in love with Aurelia on first meeting—not in a romantic or fleshly way, he insisted—more the instinctive recognition of a kindred spirit, as determined and courageous and intelligent as he was himself. Aurelia became his to cherish and protect. As her children came along they too were gathered under Lucius Decumius’s vulturine wing. He idolized Young Caesar, loving him, if the truth were known, far more than he did his own two sons, both almost men now and already being trained in the ways of the crossroads college. For years he had guarded the boy, spent hours in his company, filled him with an oddly honest appraisal of the boy’s world and its people, shown him how the protection agency worked, and how a good assassin worked. There was nothing about Lucius Decumius that Young Caesar did not know. And nothing Young Caesar did not understand; the behavior appropriate for a patrician Roman nobleman was not at all appropriate for a Roman of the Fourth Class who was the caretaker of a crossroads college. Each to his own. But that did not negate their being friends. Or loving each other.
“We’re villains, us Roman lowly,” Lucius Decumius had explained to Young Caesar. “Can’t not be if we’re to eat and drink well, have three or four nice slaves and one of them with a cunnus worth lifting a skirt for. Even if we was clever in business—which we mostly isn’t—where would we find the capital, I asks you? No, a man cuts his tunic to suit its cloth, I always says, and that’s that.” He laid his right forefinger against the side of his nose and grinned to display dirty teeth. “But not a word, Gaius Julius! Not a word to anyone! Especially your dear mother.”
The secrets were kept and were to go on being kept, including from Aurelia. Young Caesar’s education was broader by far than she remotely suspected.
*
By midnight the gig and its sweating mules had reached the army camp just beyond the small village of Tibur. Gaius Marius roused the ex-praetor Lucius Cornelius Cinna from his bed without the slightest compunction.
They knew each oth
er only slightly, for there were almost thirty years of age between them, but Cinna was known from his speeches in the House to be an admirer of Marius’s. He had been a good praetor urbanus—the first of Rome’s wartime governors because of the absence of both consuls— but the confrontation with Italia had ruined his chances of swelling his private fortune during a term governing one of the provinces.
Now two years later he found himself without the means to dower either of his daughters, and was even in some doubt as to whether he could assure his son’s senatorial career beyond the back benches. A letter from the Senate promoting him to the full command in the Marsic theater following upon the death of Cato the Consul had no power to thrill him; all it really meant was a great deal of work shoring up a structure rendered shaky by a man who had been as incompetent as he was arrogant. Oh, where was that fruitful province?
A stocky man with a weatherbeaten face and a maloccluded jaw, his looks had not prevented his making a notable marriage to an heiress, Annia from a rich plebeian family which had been consular for two hundred years. Cinna and Annia had three children—a girl now fifteen, a boy of seven, and a second girl, aged five. Though not a beauty, Annia was nevertheless a striking woman, red-haired and green-eyed; the older daughter had inherited her coloring, whereas the two younger children were as dark as their father. None of this had been important until Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus had visited Cinna and asked for the hand of the older daughter on behalf of his older son, Gnaeus.
“We like red-haired wives, we Domitii Ahenobarbi,” the Pontifex Maximus had said bluntly. “Your girl, Cornelia Cinna, fulfills all the criteria I want in my son’s wife— she’s the right age, she’s a patrician, and she’s red-haired. Originally I had my eye on Lucius Sulla’s girl. But she’s to marry Quintus Pompeius Rufus’s son, which is a shame. However, your girl will do just as well. Same gens—and, I imagine, a bigger dowry?”
Cinna had swallowed, offered up a silent prayer to Juno Sospita and to Ops, and put his faith in his future as the governor of a fruitful province. “By the time my daughter is old enough to marry, Gnaeus Domitius, she will be dowered with fifty talents. I cannot make it more. Is that satisfactory?”
“Oh, quite!” said Ahenobarbus. “Gnaeus is my principal heir, so your girl will be doing very well indeed. I believe I am among the five or six richest men in Rome, and I have thousands of clients. Could we go ahead and conduct the betrothal ceremony?”
All this had happened the year before Cinna was praetor, and at a time when he could be pardoned for assuming he would find the money to dower his older daughter at the time she would be given in marriage to Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus Junior. If Annia’s fortune were not so wretchedly tied up matters would have been easier, but Annia’s father kept control of her money, and at her death it could not pass to her children.
When Gaius Marius roused him from sleep as the half-moon was sinking into the western sky, Cinna had no idea of the eventual consequences of this visit; rather, he pulled on a tunic and shoes with a heavy heart and prepared himself to say unpleasant things to the father of one who had seemed a most promising boy.
The Great Man entered the command tent with a peculiar escort in tow—a very common-looking man of perhaps a little under fifty years, and a very beautiful boy. The boy it was who did most of the work, and in a manner suggesting he was well accustomed to the task. Cinna would have deemed him a slave except that he wore the bulla around his neck and comported himself like a patrician of a better family than Cornelius. When Marius was seated the boy stood on his left side and the middle-aged man behind him.
“Lucius Cornelius Cinna, this is my nephew Gaius Julius Caesar Junior, and my friend Lucius Decumius. You may be absolutely frank in front of them.” Marius used his right hand to dispose his left hand in his lap, seeming less tired than Cinna had expected, and more in command of his faculties than news from Rome—old news, come to think of it—had implied. Obviously still a formidable man. But hopefully not a formidable opponent, thought Cinna.
“A tragic business, Gaius Marius.”
The wide-awake eyes roamed around the tent to ascertain who might be about, and when they found no one, swung to Cinna.
“Are we alone, Lucius Cinna?”
“Completely.”
“Good.” Marius settled more comfortably into his chair. “My source of information was secondhand. Quintus Lutatius called to see me and found me not at home. He gave the story to my wife, who in turn reported it to me. I take it that my son is charged with the murder of Lucius Cato the Consul during a battle, and that there is a witness—or some witnesses. Is this the correct story?”
“I am afraid so, yes.”
“How many witnesses?”
“Just the one.”
“And who is he? A man of integrity?”
“Beyond reproach, Gaius Marius. A contubernalis named Publius Claudius Pulcher,” said Cinna.
Marius grunted. “Oh, that family! It’s one notorious for harboring grudges and being difficult to get on with. It’s also as poor as an Apulian shepherd. How therefore can you state unequivocally that the witness is beyond reproach?”
“Because this particular Claudius is not typical of that family,” said Cinna, determined to depress Marius’s hopes. “His reputation within the contubernalis tent and throughout the late Lucius Cato’s staff is superlative. You will understand better when you meet him. He has a high degree of loyalty toward his fellow cadets—he is the oldest of them—and much genuine affection for your son. Also much sympathy for your son’s action, I add. Lucius Cato was not popular with any of his staff, let alone his army.”
“Yet Publius Claudius has accused my son.”
“He felt it his duty.”
“Oh, I see! A sanctimonious prig.”
But Cinna disputed this. “No, Gaius Marius, he is not! Think for a moment as a commander, I beg you, not as a father! The young man Pulcher is the finest kind of Roman, as conscious of his duty as of his family. He did his duty, little though he liked it. And that is the simple truth.”
When Marius struggled to rise it was more apparent that he was tired; clearly he had become accustomed to performing this deed unaided, yet now he could not move without Young Caesar. The commoner Lucius Decumius slid round to stand at Marius’s right shoulder, and cleared his throat. The eyes staring at Cinna were trying to speak volumes, some sort of message.
“You wish to say something?” asked Cinna.
“Lucius Cinna, begging your pardon and all, must the hearing of the case against young Gaius Marius be tomorrow?”
Cinna blinked, surprised. “No. It can be the day after.”
“Then if you don’t mind, let it be the day after. When Gaius Marius gets up tomorrow—and that isn’t going to be early—he will need exercise. He’s just spent far too long sitting cramped up in a gig, you see.” Decumius spoke slowly, concentrating on his grammar. “At the moment his exercise is riding, three hours a day. Tomorrow he has to ride, you see. He also has to be given the opportunity to inspect this Publius Claudius cadet for himself. Young Gaius Marius stands accused of a capital crime, and a man of Gaius Marius’s importance has to satisfy himself, do he not? Now it might be a good idea if Gaius Marius was to meet this Publius Claudius cadet in a—a—a more informal way than in this tent. None of us wants—want—things to be more horrible than they need—needs—to be. So I think it would be a good idea if you organized a riding party for tomorrow afternoon and have all the cadets along on it. Including Publius Claudius.”
Cinna was frowning, suspecting that he was being maneuvered into something he would regret. The boy to Marius’s left gave Cinna a bewitching smile, and winked at him.
“Please forgive Lucius Decumius,” said Young Caesar. “He is my uncle’s most devoted client. And he’s a tyrant too! The only way to keep him happy is to humor him.”
“I cannot permit Gaius Marius to have private speech with Publius Claudius before the hearing,” sai
d Cinna miserably.
Marius had stood looking utterly outraged throughout this exchange; he now turned in such a patently genuine temper upon Lucius Decumius and Young Caesar that Cinna feared he would push himself into a fresh apoplexy.
“What is all this nonsense?” Marius roared. “I don’t need to meet this paragon of youth and duty Publius Claudius under any circumstances! All I want to do is see my son and be present at his hearing!”
“Now, now, Gaius Marius, don’t work yourself into a twitter,” said Lucius Decumius in an oily voice. “After a nice little ride tomorrow afternoon, you’ll feel more up to the hearing.”
“Oh, preserve me from coddling idiots!” cried Marius, stumping out of the tent without assistance. “Where is my son?”
Young Caesar lingered while Lucius Decumius chased after the irate Marius.
“Don’t take any notice, Lucius Cinna,” he said, producing that wonderful smile again. “They squabble incessantly, but Lucius Decumius is right. Tomorrow Gaius Marius needs to rest and take his proper exercise. This is a very worrying business for him. All we are really concerned about is that it not affect Gaius Marius’s recovery process too severely.”
“Yes, I understand that,” said Cinna, patting the boy paternally on his shoulder; he was too tall to pat on the head. “Now I had better take Gaius Marius to see his son.” He took a spitting torch from its stand and walked out toward Marius’s looming bulk. “Your son is this way, Gaius Marius. For the sake of appearances I have confined him to a tent on his own until the hearing. He is under guard and is allowed to have congress with nobody.”
“You realize, of course, that your hearing is not a final one,” said Marius as they passed between two rows of tents. “If its outcome is unfavorable toward my son, I will insist, that he be tried by his peers in Rome.”
“Quite so,” said Cinna colorlessly.
When father and son confronted each other, Young Marius stared at Marius a little wildly, but looked to be in control of himself. Until he took in Lucius Decumius and Young Caesar.
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