“Oh yes, I remember the incident well,” said Aelia. “I just couldn’t remember her name. Not that Lucius Cornelius ever discussed it with me. But until Marcus Aemilius Scaurus did shut her away, I was not allowed to be out of our house if Lucius Cornelius was at home. He took enormous care that Marcus Aemilius Scaurus should know there was no impropriety on his part.” Aelia sighed. “Not that it made any difference. Marcus Aemilius Scaurus still made sure he lost in the praetorian elections.”
“She’ll have no joy from my father,” said Cornelia Sulla grimly. “No woman ever has had joy from him.”
“Don’t say such things, Cornelia!”
“Oh, Mama, I’m not a child anymore! I have a child of my own! And I know him better than you do because I don’t love him the way you do! I’m blood of his blood— and sometimes that thought makes me so afraid! My father is a monster. And women bring out the worst in him. My real mother committed suicide—and no one will ever convince me that it wasn’t over something my father did to her!”
“You’ll never know, Cornelia, so don’t think about it,” said young Quintus Pompeius sternly.
Aelia looked suddenly surprised. “How odd! If you had asked me whom he might have married, I would have said, Aurelia!”
Cornelia Sulla nodded. “So would I. They’ve always been as chummy as two harpies on a rock. Different feathers. Same birds.” She shrugged, said it. “Birds, nothing! Monsters, both of them.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met Caecilia Metella Dalmatica,” said Aelia, anxious to draw Cornelia Sulla away from dangerous statements, “even when she was following my husband around.”
“Not your husband anymore, Mama! Her husband.”
“Hardly anyone knows her,” said young Pompeius Rufus, also anxious to pacify Cornelia Sulla. “Marcus Scaurus kept her in total isolation after that one indiscretion, innocent though it was. There are two children, a girl and a boy, but no one knows them. Or her. And since Marcus Scaurus died, she’s been more invisible, than ever. That’s why the whole city is buzzing.” He held out his cup for more water. “Today is the first day after her period of mourning. And that’s yet another reason why all of Rome is buzzing.”
“He must love her very much,” said Aelia.
“Rubbish!” said Cornelia Sulla. “He doesn’t love anyone.’’
*
After the white anger in which he had left Aelia standing on the Clivus Victoriae alone, Sulla underwent his usual plummet into black depression during the hours following. Partly to twist the knife in the colossal wound he knew he had inflicted upon the too-nice, too-boring Aelia, he went the next morning to the house of Metellus Pius. His interest in the Widow Scaurus was as old and cold as his mood; what he wanted was to make Aelia suffer. Divorce was not enough. He must find some better way to twist the knife. And what better way than to marry someone else immediately, make it look as if that was why he had divorced her? These women, he thought as he walked to the house of Metellus Pius, they have driven me mad since I was a very young man. Since I gave up selling myself to men because I was stupid enough to think women easier victims. But I have been the victim. Their victim. I killed Nicopolis and Clitumna. And, thank every god there is, Julilla killed herself. But it’s too dangerous to kill Aelia. And divorce isn’t enough. She’s been expecting that for years.
He found the Piglet deeply immersed in conversation with his new quaestor, Mamercus Aemilius Lepidus Livianus. A stroke of truly wonderful luck to find both of them together—but wasn’t he always Fortune’s favorite?
It was quite understandable that Mamercus and the Piglet should be closeted together, yet such was the aura around Sulla in one of his darker moods that the pair of them found themselves greeting him with the nervous agitation of a couple discovered in the act of making love to each other.
Good officers both, they sat down only after he was seated, then stared at him without finding a single thing to say.
“Had your tongues cut out?” asked Sulla.
Metellus Pius jumped, startled. “No, Lucius Cornelius! No! Forgive me, my thoughts were muh-muh-miles away.”
“Yours too, Mamercus?” asked Sulla.
But Mamercus, slow and steady and trusty, discovered a smile buried in his courage. “Actually, yes,” he said.
“Then I’ll give them another direction entirely—and that goes for both of you,” said Sulla with his most feral grin.
They said nothing, just waited.
“I want to marry Caecilia Metella Dalmatica.”
“Jupiter!” squeaked Metellus Pius.
“That’s not very original, Piglet,” said Sulla. He got up, moved to the door of Metellus Pius’s study and looked back, one brow raised. “I want to marry her tomorrow,” he said. “I ask both of you to think about it and let me have your answer by dinnertime. Since I want a son, I’ve divorced my wife for barrenness. But I do not want to replace her with a young and silly girl. I’m too old for adolescent antics. I want a mature woman who has proven her fertility by already having had two children, including a boy. I thought of Dalmatica because she seems—or seemed, years ago— to have a soft spot for me.”
With that he was gone, leaving Metellus Pius and Mamercus looking at each other, jaws hanging.
“Jupiter!” said Metellus Pius again, more feebly.
“It’s certainly a surprise,” said Mamercus, who was far less surprised than the Piglet because he didn’t know Sulla one hundredth as well as the Piglet did.
The Piglet now scratched his head, shook it. “Why her! Except in passing when Marcus Aemilius died, I haven’t thought of Dalmatica in years. She might be my first cousin, but after that business with Lucius Cornelius—how extraordinary!—she was locked up in her house under better security by far than the cells of the Lautumiae.” He stared at Mamercus. “As executor of the will, you must surely have seen her during the last few months.”
“To answer your first question first—why her?—I imagine her money won’t go astray,” said Mamercus. “As for your second question, I’ve seen her several times since Marcus Aemilius died, though not as often as I ought. I was already in the field at the time of his death, but I saw her then because I had to return to Rome to tidy up Marcus Aemilius’s affairs. And if you want an honest opinion, I’d say she wasn’t mourning the old man much at all. She seemed far more concerned with her children. Still, I found that absolutely reasonable. What was the age difference? Forty years?”
“All of that, I think. I remember when she married I felt sorry for her just a little. She was supposed to marry the son, but he suicided. My father gave her to Marcus Aemilius instead.”
“The thing which struck me was her timidity,” said Mamercus. “Or it could be that her confidence is gone. She’s afraid to go out of the house, even though I told her she might. She has no friends at all.”
“How could she have friends? I was quite serious when I said Marcus Aemilius locked her up,” said Metellus Pius.
“After he died,” said Mamercus reflectively, “she was of course alone in his house except for her children and a rather small group of slaves, considering the size of the establishment. But when I suggested this aunt or that cousin as a resident chaperone, she grew very upset. Wouldn’t hear of any of them. In the end I was obliged to hire a Roman couple of good stock and reputation to live with her. She said she understood the conventions had to be observed, especially considering that old indiscretion, but she preferred to live with strangers than relatives. It is pathetic, Quintus Caecilius! How old was she at the time of that indiscretion? Nineteen? And married to a man of sixty!”
The Piglet shrugged. “That’s marital luck, Mamercus. Look at me. Married to the younger daughter of Lucius Crassus Orator, whose older daughter has three sons already. Whereas my Licinia is still childless—and not for the want of trying, believe me! So we think we’ll ask for one of the nephews to adopt.”
Mamercus wrinkled his forehead, looked suddenly inspired. “I suggest you do w
hat Lucius Cornelius wants to do! Divorce Licinia Minor for barrenness, and marry Dalmatica yourself.”
“No, Mamercus, I couldn’t. I’m very fond of my wife,” said the Piglet gruffly.
“Then ought we think seriously about Lucius Cornelius’s offer?”
“Oh, definitely. He’s not a wealthy man, but he has something better, you know. He’s a great man. My cousin Dalmatica has been married to a great man, so she’s accustomed to it. Lucius Cornelius is going to go far, Mamercus. I don’t know why I’m so utterly convinced of it, because I don’t see any way in which he can go much further. But he will! I know he will. He’s not a Marius. Nor is he a Scaurus. Yet I believe he will eclipse them both.”
Mamercus rose to his feet. “Then we’d better go round and see what Dalmatica has to say. There’s no possibility of a marriage tomorrow, however.”
“Why not? She can’t still be in mourning, surely!”
“No. Oddly enough, her mourning period finishes today. Which is why,” said Mamercus, “it would look suspicious if she was to marry tomorrow. In a few weeks, I think.”
“No, it must be tomorrow,” said Metellus Pius strongly. “You don’t know Lucius Cornelius the way I do. No man lives whom I esteem and respect more. But you do not gainsay him, Mamercus! If we agree they can marry, then it’s tomorrow.”
“I’ve just remembered something, Quintus Caecilius. The last time I saw Dalmatica—it would be two or three market intervals ago—she asked after Lucius Cornelius. But she’s never asked after any other person, even you, her closest relative.”
“Well, she was in love with him when she was nineteen. Maybe she’s still in love with him. Women are peculiar, they do things like that,” said the Piglet in tones of great experience.
When the two men arrived at Marcus Aemilius Scaurus’s house and confronted Caecilia Metella Dalmatica, Metellus Pius saw what Mamercus had meant when he described her as timid. A mouse, was his verdict. A very attractive mouse, however, and sweet-natured. It did not occur to him to wonder how he might have felt had he been given in marriage at the age of seventeen to a woman almost sixty; women did as they were told, and a male sexagenarian had more to offer in every way than any female over forty-five. He launched into speech, as it had been decided that he— her closest relative—was technically in the position of paterfamilias.
‘ ‘Dalmatica, today we have received an offer of marriage on your behalf. We strongly recommend that you accept, though we do feel you should have the right to decline should you wish,” said Metellus Pius very formally. “You are the widow of the Princeps Senatus and the mother of his children. However, we think no better offer of marriage is likely to come your way.”
“Who has offered for me, Quintus Caecilius?’’ Dalmatica asked, voice very small.
“The consul Lucius Cornelius Sulla.”
An expression of incredulous joy suffused her face, the grey of her eyes shone silver; two rather ungainly hands came out, almost met in a clap.
“I accept!” she gasped.
Both men blinked, having expected to do some persuasive talking before Dalmatica could be made to agree.
“He wants to marry you tomorrow,” said Mamercus.
“Today, if he wants!”
What could they say? What did one say?
Mamercus tried. “You are a very wealthy woman, Dalmatica. We have had no discussions with Lucius Cornelius regarding settlements and a dowry. In his mind, I think they are secondary considerations in that he knows you’re rich, and isn’t bothered beyond knowing you’re rich. He said he had divorced his wife for barrenness and didn’t want to marry a young girl, but rather a woman of sense still able to have children—and preferably a woman who already has children to establish her fertility.”
This ponderous explanation drove some of the light out of her face, but she nodded as if she understood, though she said nothing.
Mamercus plodded on into the mire of financial matters. “You will not be able to continue living here, of course. This house is now the property of your young son and must remain in my custody. I suggest you ask your chaperones if they would mind continuing to live here until your son is of an age to assume responsibility. Those slaves you do not wish to take with you to your new establishment can remain here with the caretakers. However, the house of Lucius Cornelius is a very small one compared to this house. I think you would find it claustra.”
“I find this one claustra,” said Dalmatica with a flicker of—irony? Truly?
“A new beginning should mean a new house,” said Metellus Pius, taking over when Mamercus bogged down. “If Lucius Cornelius agrees, the settlement could be a domus of this size in a location fitting for people of your status. Your dowry consists of the money left to you by your father, my uncle Dalmaticus. You also have a large sum left to you by Marcus Aemilius that cannot properly constitute a part of your dowry. However, for your own safety Mamercus and I will make sure that it is tied up in such a way that it remains yours. I do not think it wise to let Lucius Cornelius have access to your money.”
“Anything you like,” said Dalmatica.
“Then provided Lucius Cornelius agrees to these terms, the marriage can take place here tomorrow at the sixth hour of daylight. Until we can find a new house, you will live with Lucius Cornelius in his house,” said Mamercus.
Since Lucius Cornelius agreed expressionlessly to every condition, he and Caecilia Metella Dalmatica were married at the sixth hour of the following day, with Metellus Pius officiating and Mamercus acting as witness. The usual trappings had been dispensed with; after the brief ceremony— not confarreatio—was over, the bride and groom walked to Sulla’s house in the company of the bride’s two children, Metellus Pius, Mamercus, and three slaves the bride had requested she take with her.
When Sulla picked her up to carry her over his threshold she stiffened in shock, so easily and competently was it done. Mamercus and Metellus Pius came in to drink a cup of wine, but left so quickly that the new steward, Chrysogonus, was still absent showing the children and their tutor where their new quarters were, and the two other slaves were still standing looking utterly lost in a corner of the peristyle-garden.
The bride and groom were alone in the atrium. “Well, wife,” said Sulla flatly, “you’ve married another old man, and no doubt you’ll be widowed a second time.” That seemed such an outrageous statement to Dalmatica that she gaped at him, had to search for words. “You’re not old, Lucius Cornelius!”
“Fifty-two. That’s not young compared to almost thirty.’’
“Compared to Marcus Aemilius, you’re a youth!” Sulla threw back his head and laughed. “There’s only one place where that remark can be proven,” he said, and picked her up again. “No dinner for you today, wife! It’s bedtime.”
“But the children! A new home for them—!”
“I bought a new steward yesterday after I divorced Aelia, and he’s a very efficient sort of fellow. Name’s Chrysogonus. An oily Greek of the worst kind. They make the best stewards once they’re aware that the master is awake to every trick and quite capable of crucifying them.” Sulla lifted his lip. “Your children will be looked after magnificently. Chrysogonus needs to ingratiate himself.”
*
The kind of marriage Dalmatica had experienced with Scaurus became far more obvious when Sulla put his new wife down on his bed, for she scuttled off it, opened the chest sent on ahead to Sulla’s house, and from it plucked a primly neat linen nightgown. While Sulla watched, fascinated, she turned her back to him, loosened her pretty cream wool dress but held it under her arms firmly, and managed thus to get the nightgown over her head and modestly hanging before she abandoned her clothes; one moment she was clad for day, the next moment she was clad for night. And never a glimpse of flesh!
“Take that wretched thing off,” said Sulla from behind her.
She turned round quickly and felt the breath leave her body. Sulla was naked, skin whiter than snow, the curling hair of c
hest and groin reflecting the mop on his head, a man without a sag to his midriff, without the crepey folds of true old age, a man compact and muscular.
It had taken Scaurus what had seemed hours of fumbling beneath her robe, pinching at her nipples and feeling between her legs, before anything happened to his penis—the only male member she had known, though she had never actually seen it. Scaurus had been an old-fashioned Roman, kept his sexual activities as modest as he felt his wife should be. That when availing himself of a less modest female than his wife, his sexual activity was very different, his wife could not know.
Yet there was Sulla, as noble and aristocratic as her dead husband, shamelessly exhibiting himself to her, his penis seeming as huge and erect as the one Priapus displayed upon his bronze statue in Scaurus’s study. She was not unfamiliar with the sexual anatomy of male and female, for both were everywhere in every house; the genitalia upon the herms, the lamps, the pedestals of tables, even some of the paintings on the walls. None of which had ever seemed remotely related to married life. They were simply a part of the furniture. Married life had been a husband who had never shown himself to her—who, despite the production of two children, as far as she knew could have been quite differently constructed from Priapus or the furniture and decorations.
When she had first met Sulla at that dinner party so many years ago, he had dazzled her. She had never seen a man so beautiful, so hard and strong yet so—so— womanish? What she had felt for him then (and during the time when she had spied on him as he went about Rome canvassing for the praetorian elections) was not consciously of the flesh, for she was a married woman with experience of the flesh, and dismissed it as the most unimportant and least appealing aspect of love. Her passion for Sulla was literally a schoolgirl crush—something of air and wind, not fire and fluid. From behind pillars and awnings she had feasted on him with her eyes, dreamed of his kisses rather than his penis, yearned for him in the most lavishly romantic way. What she wanted was a conquest, his enslavement, her own sweet victory as he knelt at her feet and wept for love of her.
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