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

by Colleen McCullough

  “Let the old cripple go naked. Minturnae should see what a fine fellow the great Gaius Marius is! The whole town knew he was here. They’ll suffer for sheltering him.”

  So the old cripple walked naked in the midst of the troopers, stumbling, limping, falling, all the way back to Minturnae; and the troopers didn’t care how long it took to make the journey. As they neared the town and houses began to cluster along the track, the leader called loudly to everyone to come and see the captured fugitive Gaius Marius, who would soon lose his head in the Minturnae forum. “Come one, come all!” the leader shouted.

  At midafternoon the troopers rode into the forum with most of the town accompanying them, too stunned, too amazed to protest at the way the great Gaius Marius was being treated, and aware he was condemned for Great Treason. Yet a slow dull anger grew in the backs of their minds— surely Gaius Marius could not commit Great Treason!

  The two chief magistrates were waiting at the foot of the meeting-hall steps surrounded by a guard of town beadles, hastily called up to let these arrogant Roman officials see that Minturnae was not entirely at their mercy, that if necessary Minturnae could fight back.

  “We caught Gaius Marius about to sail away in a Minturnaean ship,” said the leader of the troop ominously. “Minturnae knew he was here, and Minturnae helped him.”

  “Minturnae cannot be held responsible for the actions of a few Minturnaeans,” said the senior town magistrate stiffly. “However, you now have your prisoner. Take him and go.”

  “Oh, I don’t want all of him!” said the leader, grinning. “I just want his head. You can keep the rest. There’s a nice stone bench over there will do the job. We’ll just lean him against it, and his head will be off in a trice.”

  The crowd gasped, growled; the two magistrates looked grim, their beadles restless.

  “On whose authority do you presume to execute in the forum of Minturnae a man who has been consul of Rome six times—a hero?” asked the senior duumvir. He looked the leader up and down, the troop up and down, determined to make them feel a little of what he had felt when they had accosted him so arrogantly shortly after dawn. “You don’t seem like Roman cavalry. How do I know you are who you say you are?”

  “We’ve been hired specifically to do this job,” said the leader, growing steadily more uneasy as he saw the faces in the crowd and the beadles shifting their scabbards to come at their swords.

  “Hired by whom? The Senate and People of Rome?” asked the duumvir in the manner of an advocate.

  “That’s right.”

  “I do not believe you. Show me proof.”

  “This man is condemned of perduellio! You know what that means, duumvir. His life is forfeit in every Roman and Latin community. I’m not authorized to bring the whole man back to Rome alive. I’m authorized to bring back his head.”

  “Then,” said the senior magistrate calmly, “you will have to fight Minturnae to get that head. Here in our town we are not common barbarians. A Roman citizen of Gaius Marius’s standing is not decapitated like a slave or a peregrinus.”

  “Strictly speaking he’s not a Roman citizen!” said the leader savagely. “However, if you want the job done nicely, then I suggest you do it yourselves! I’m off to Rome to bring you back all the proof you need, duumvir! I’ll be back in three days. Gaius Marius had better be dead, otherwise this whole town will have to answer to the Senate and People of Rome. And in three days I will take the head from Gaius Marius’s dead body, according to my orders.”

  Throughout all this, Marius had been standing swaying in the midst of the troopers, a ghastly apparition whose plight had moved many to tears. Angry at being cheated, one of the troopers drew his sword to cut Marius down, but the crowd was suddenly all among the horses, hands reaching for the fugitive to draw him out of reach of swords, ready to fight. As were the beadles.

  “Minturnae will pay!” snarled the leader.

  “Minturnae will execute the prisoner according to his dignitas and auctoritas,” said the senior magistrate. “Now leave!”

  “Just one moment!” roared a hoarse voice. Gaius Marius came forward among a host of Minturnaean men. “You may have fooled these good country people, but you don’t fool me! Rome has no cavalry to hunt condemned men down—neither Senate nor People hires it, only individuals. Who hired you?”

  So evocative of old times under the standards was the power in Marius’s voice that the leader’s tongue had answered before his prudence could prevent it. “Sextus Lucilius,” he said.

  “Thank you!” said Marius. “I will remember.”

  “I piss on you, old man!” said the leader scornfully, and pulled his horse’s head around with a vicious jerk. “You have given me your word, magistrate! When I return I expect Gaius Marius to be a dead man and his head ready for lopping!”

  The moment the troop had ridden off, the duumvir nodded to his beadles. “Put Gaius Marius in confinement,” he said.

  The magistrate’s men plucked Marius from the middle of the crowd and escorted him gently to a single cell beneath the podium of the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, normally only used to shut up a violent drunkard for the night, or imprison someone gone mad until more permanent arrangements could be made.

  As soon as Marius had been led away the crowd knotted into clusters suddenly talking urgently, none going any further than the taverns around the perimeter of the square. And here Aulus Belaeus, who had witnessed the whole incident, began to move among the groups, himself talking urgently.

  *

  Minturnae owned several public slaves, but among them was one extremely useful fellow whom the town had bought from an itinerant dealer two years before, and never regretted paying the hefty price of five thousand denarii asked. Then eighteen years old, now twenty, he was a gigantic German of the Cimbric nation, by name of Burgundus. He stood a full head higher than the few men of six feet Minturnae owned, and his thews were mighty, his strength of that breathtaking kind undamped by brilliance of intellect or oversensitivity of spirit—not surprising in one who had been six years old when he was taken after the battle of Vercellae and subjected ever since to the life of the enslaved barbarian. Not for him, the privileges and emoluments of the polished Greek who sold himself into slavery because it increased his chances of prosperity; Burgundus was paid a pittance, lived in a dilapidated wooden hut on the edge of town, and thought he had been visited by the magic wagon of the goddess Nerthus when some woman sought him out, curious to see what sort of lover a barbarian giant made. It never occurred to Burgundus to escape, nor did he find his lot an unhappy one; on the contrary, he had enjoyed his two years in Minturnae, where he felt quite important and knew himself valued. In time, he had been given to understand, his stips would be increased and he would be allowed to marry, to have children. And if he continued to work well, his children would be deemed free.

  The other public slaves were put to weeding and sweeping, painting, washing down buildings and other kinds of maintenance, but Burgundus alone inherited the jobs requiring heavy labor or more than normal human strength. It was Burgundus who cleared the Minturnaean drains and sewers when they blocked after floods, Burgundus who removed a flyblown carcass of horse or ass or other big animal from an inconvenient place, Burgundus who took down trees considered dangerous, Burgundus who went after a savage dog, Burgundus who dug ditches single-handed. Like all huge creatures, the German was a gentle and docile man, aware of his own strength and in no need to prove it to anyone; aware too that if he aimed a playful blow at someone, that someone could well die as the result of it. He had therefore developed a technique to handle drunken sailors and overly aggressive little men determined to conquer him, and sported a few scars because of his forbearance—but also sported a kindly enough reputation in the town.

  Having been maneuvered into the unenviable task of executing Gaius Marius and determined they would do their duty in as Roman a way as possible (and also aware that this duty would not be popular with the inhabita
nts of the town), the magistrates sent for Burgundus the handyman at once.

  He, in ignorance of the events in Minturnae that day, had been piling huge stones in a heap below the walls on the Via Appia side of town, preparatory to beginning some repairs. And, fetched by a fellow slave, walked in the direction of the forum with his long, deceptively slow strides while the other public servant half-ran to keep up with him.

  The senior magistrate was waiting for him in a lane outside the forum, a lane which backed onto the meeting hall and the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus; if the job was to be done without incurring a riot it would have to be done at once, and without the knowledge of the crowd in the forum.

  “Ah, Burgundus, just the man I need!” said the duumvir (whose colleague, a less forceful man, had mysteriously disappeared). “In the cella below our capitol is a prisoner.’’ He turned away and threw the rest over his shoulder in a casual, unconcerned manner. “You will strangle him. He’s a traitor under sentence of death.”

  The German stood quite still, then lifted his hands and looked at their vastness in wonder; never before had he been called upon to kill a man. Kill a man with those hands. It would be as easy for him as for any other man to wring a chicken’s neck. Of course he had to do as he was told, that went without saying; but suddenly the sense of comfortable well-being he had enjoyed in Minturnae blew away in a lonely wind. He was to become the town executioner as well as being made to do everything else unpalatable. Filled with horror, his usually placid blue eyes took in the back of the capitol, the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Where the prisoner he had been told to strangle was located. A very important prisoner, it seemed. One of the Italian leaders in the war?

  Burgundus drew in a deep breath, then plodded toward the far side of the temple’s podium, where the door to the little labyrinth beneath was located. To enter, he had not only to dip his head, but to bend almost double. He found himself inside a narrow stone hall, off which several doors opened on either side; at its far end an iron grille covered a slit made to let in light. In this gloomy place were kept the town’s records and archives, local laws and statutes, the treasury, and, behind the first door to the left, the rare man or woman the duumviri had ordered detained until whatever troubled them had passed and they could be released.

  Made of oak three fingers thick, this door was an even smaller one than the entranceway; Burgundus pulled back the bolt, crouched, and squeezed himself into the cell. Like the hall the room was illuminated by a barred opening, this one high up on the back wall of the temple base, where noises emanating from within were least liable to be heard from the forum. It gave barely enough light to see, especially because the eyes of Burgundus were not yet accustomed to the dimness.

  Straightening as much as possible, the German giant distinguished a greyish-black lump, vaguely man-shaped; whoever it was rose to his feet and faced his executioner.

  “What do you want?” the prisoner demanded loudly, his voice full of authority.

  “I have been told to strangle you,” said Burgundus simply.

  “You’re a German!” said the prisoner sharply. “Which tribe? Come on, answer me, you great gawk!”

  This last was uttered even more sharply, for Burgundus was now beginning to see more clearly, and what had caused him to hesitate over his reply was the sight of a pair of fierce fiery eyes.

  “I am from the Cimbri, domine.”

  The large and naked man with the terrible eyes seemed visibly to swell. “What? A slave—and one whom I conquered into the bargain!—presumes to kill Gaius Marius!

  Burgundus flinched and whimpered, threw his arms up to cover his head, cowered away.

  “Get out!” thundered Gaius Marius. “I’ll not meet my death in any mean dungeon at the hands of any German!”

  Wailing, Burgundus fled, leaving cell door and outer door ajar, and erupted into the open space of the forum.

  “No, no!” he cried to those in the square, tears falling down his face in rivers. “I cannot kill Gaius Marius! I cannot kill Gaius Marius! I cannot kill Gaius Marius!”

  Aulus Belaeus came striding across from the opposite side of the forum, took the giant’s writhing hands gently. “It’s all right, Burgundus, that won’t be asked of you. Stop crying now, there’s the good boy! Enough!”

  “I can’t kill Gaius Marius!” Burgundus said again, wiping his runny nose on his arm because Belaeus still held his hands. “And I can’t let anyone else kill Gaius Marius either!”

  “No one is going to kill Gaius Marius,” said Belaeus firmly. “It’s all a misunderstanding. Now calm yourself, and make yourself useful. Go across to Marcus Furius and take the wine and the robe he’s holding. Offer Gaius Marius both. Then you may take Gaius Marius to my house and wait there with him.”

  Like a child the giant quietened, beamed upon Aulus Belaeus, and lolloped off to do as he was told.

  Belaeus turned to face the crowd, gathering again; his eyes were fixed upon the duumviri, both rushing from the meeting hall, and his stance was aggressive.

  “Well, citizens of Minturnae, are you going to allow our lovely town to inherit the detestable task of killing Gaius Marius?”

  “Aulus Belaeus, we have to do this!” said the senior magistrate, arriving breathless. “It is Great Treason!”

  “I don’t care if it’s every crime on the statutes!” said Aulus Belaeus. ‘ ‘Minturnae cannot execute Gaius Marius!’’

  The crowd was yelling its heartfelt support for Aulus Belaeus, so the magistrates convened a meeting then and there to discuss the matter. The result was a foregone conclusion; Gaius Marius was to go free. Minturnae could not possibly make itself responsible for the death of a man who had been consul of Rome six times and saved Italy from the Germans.

  “So,” said Aulus Belaeus contentedly to Gaius Marius a little later, “I am pleased to be able to tell you that I will put you back on my ship with the best wishes of all Minturnae, including our silly hidebound magistrates. And this time your ship will sail without your being dragged back to shore, I promise you.”

  Bathed and fed, Marius was feeling much better. “I have received much kindness since I fled Rome, Aulus Belaeus, but none so great as the kindness Minturnae has shown me. I shall never forget this place.” He turned to give the hovering Burgundus the best smile his poor paralyzed face could produce. “Nor will I forget that I was spared by a German. Thank you.”

  Belaeus rose to his feet. “I’d like to permit my house the honor of having you stay, Gaius Marius, but I won’t rest easy until I see your ship sailing out of the bay. Let me escort you to the docks immediately. You can sleep on board.”

  When they came out of the street door to Belaeus’s house, most of Minturnae was waiting to walk with them to the harbor; a cheer went up for Gaius Marius, who stood acknowledging it with regal dignity. Then everyone proceeded to the shore with lighter hearts and more importance than in years. On the jetty Marius embraced Aulus Belaeus publicly.

  “Your money is still on board,” said Belaeus, tears in his eyes. “I have sent extra clothing out for you—and a much better brand of wine than my captain normally drinks! I am also sending the slave Burgundus with you, since you have no attendants. The town is afraid to keep him in case the troopers come back and some local fool talks. He doesn’t deserve to die, so I bought him for your use.”

  “I accept Burgundus with pleasure, Aulus Belaeus, but on no account worry about those fellows. I know who hired them—a man with no authority and no clout, trying to win a reputation for himself. At first I suspected Lucius Sulla, and that would have been far more serious. But if the consul has troopers out looking for me, they haven’t reached Minturnae yet. That lot were commissioned by a glory-seeking privatus.” The breath hissed between Marius’s teeth. “He’ll keep, Sextus Lucilius!”

  “My ship is yours until you can come home again,” said Belaeus, smiling. “The captain knows. Luckily his cargo is Falernian, so it will only improve until he can unload it. We wish
you well.”

  “And I wish you well, Aulus Belaeus. I will never forget you,” said Gaius Marius.

  And finally the day of excitement was over; the men and women of Minturnae stood on the docks and waved until the ship dropped below the horizon, then trooped home feeling as if they had won a great war. Aulus Belaeus walked home last of all, smiling to himself in the dying light; he had conceived a wonderful idea. He would find the greatest painter of murals in all the peninsula and instruct him to trace the story of Gaius Marius in Minturnae through a series of magnificent pictures. They would adorn the new temple of Marica in its lovely grove of trees. After all, she was the sea-goddess who gave birth to Latinus—whose daughter Lavinia married Aeneas and produced Iulus—so she had a special significance for Gaius Marius, married to a Julia. Marica was also the patroness of the town. No greater deed had Minturnae done than to decline to kill Gaius Marius; and in the years to come, all of Italy would know of it because of the frescoes in the temple of Marica.

  *

  From that time onward Gaius Marius was never in danger, though long and wearisome were his travels. In Aenaria nineteen of the fugitives were reunited, and waited then in vain for Publius Sulpicius. After eight days they decided sorrowfully that he would never come, and sailed without him. From Aenaria they braved the open waters of the Tuscan Sea and saw no land until they came to the northwestern cape of Sicily, where they put in at the fishing port of Erycina.

  There in Sicily Marius had hoped to remain, not wanting to venture any further from Italy than he needed; though his physical health was remarkably good considering all that had befallen him, even he himself was aware that all was not well inside his mind. He forgot things, and sometimes every word said to him sounded like the bar-bars of Scythians or Sarmatians; he smelled unidentifiable yet repellent odors, and endured fishing-nets coming down across his eyes to mar his vision, or would grow unbearably hot, or wonder where he was; his temper frayed, he imagined slights and insults.