All very well, but these activities could only prosper if the financial institutions and trading companies of Rome were made available to him again. Which meant he needed an ally more powerful than anyone he knew personally: he needed Sulla. But in order to woo Sulla (since he lacked the charm and the erudition possessed so plentifully by Titus Pomponius Atticus) he would have to bring Sulla a gift. And the only gift he could possibly offer was an army. This he raised among his father’s old clients; a mere five cohorts, but five well-trained and well-equipped cohorts.
His first port of call after he left Spain was Utica, in Africa Province, where he had heard Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius, he whom Gaius Marius had called the Piglet, was still trying to hold on to his position as governor. He arrived early in the summer of the previous year, only to find that the Piglet—a pillar of Roman rectitude—was not amused by his commercial activities. Leaving the Piglet to make his own dispositions when his government fell, Crassus went on to Greece, and Sulla, who had accepted his gift of five Spanish cohorts, then proceeded to treat him coldly.
Now he sat with his small grey eyes fixed painfully upon Sulla, waiting for the slightest sign of approval, and obviously most put out to see Sulla interested only in Pompey. The cognomen of Crassus had been in the Famous Family of Licinius for many generations, but they still managed to breed true to it, Varro noted; it meant thickset (or perhaps, in the case of the first Licinius to be called Crassus, it might have meant intellectually dense?). Taller by far than he looked, Crassus was built on the massive lines of an ox, and had some of that animal’s impassive placidity in his rather expressionless face.
Varro gave the assembled men a final glance, and sighed. Yes, he had been right to spend most of his thoughts upon Crassus. They were all ambitious, most of them were probably capable, some of them were as ruthless as they were amoral, but—leaving Pompey and Sulla out of it, of course—Marcus Crassus was the man to watch in the future.
Walking back to their own house alongside a completely sober Pompey, Varro found himself very glad that he had yielded to Pompey’s exhortations and attached himself at first hand to this coming campaign.
“What did you and Sulla talk about?” he asked.
“Nothing earthshaking,” said Pompey.
“You kept your voices low enough.” ‘
“Yes, didn’t we?” Varro felt rather than saw Pompey’s grin. “He’s no fool, Sulla, even if he isn’t the man he used to be. If the rest of that sulky assemblage couldn’t hear what we said, how do they know we didn’t talk about them?”
“Did Sulla agree to be your partner in this enterprise?”
“I got to keep command of my own legions, which is all I wanted. He knows I haven’t given them to him, even on loan.”
“Was it discussed openly?’’
“I told you, the man is no fool,” said Pompey laconically. “Nothing much was said. That way, there is no agreement between us, and he is not bound.”
“You’re content with that?”
“Of course! He also knows he needs me,” said Pompey.
*
Sulla was up by dawn the next morning, and an hour later had his army on the march in the direction of Capua. By now he had accustomed himself to spurts of activity that coincided with the state of his face, for the itching was not perpetually there; rather, it tended to be cyclic. Having just emerged from a bout and its concomitant intake of wine, he knew that for some days he would have a little peace—provided he did absolutely nothing to trigger another cycle. This required a rigid policing of his hands, which could not be permitted to touch his face for any reason. Not until a man found himself in this predicament did he understand how many times his hands would go to his face without volition, without any awareness. And here he was with the weeping vesicles growing harder as they struggled to heal, and all the tickles, tingles, tiny movements of the skin that healing process involved. It was easiest on the first day, which was today, but as the days went on he would tend to forget, would reach up to scratch a perfectly natural itch of nose or cheek—and the whole ghastly business could start again. Would start again. So he had disciplined himself to get as much done as possible before the next outbreak, and then to drink himself insensible until it passed.
Oh, but it was difficult! So much to do, so much that had to be done, and he a shadow of the man he had been. Nothing had he accomplished without overcoming gigantic obstacles, but since the onset of that illness in Greece over a year ago he constantly found himself wondering why he bothered to continue. As Pompey had so obviously remarked, Sulla was no fool; he knew he had only a certain time left to live.
On a day like today, of course, just emerging from a bout of itching, he did understand why he bothered to continue: because he was the greatest man in a world unwilling to admit that. The Nabopolassar had seen it in him on the banks of the river Euphrates, and not even the gods could delude a Chaldaean seer. To be great beyond all other men, he understood on a day like today, meant a far greater degree of suffering too. He tried not to smile (a smile might disturb the healing process), thinking of his couch companion on the previous evening; now there was one who didn’t even begin to comprehend the nature of greatness!
Pompey the Great. Trust Sulla to have discovered already by what name he was known among his own people. A young man who actually thought that greatness did not have to be worked at, that greatness had been given him at birth and would never not be there. I wish with all my heart, Pompeius Magnus, thought Sulla, that I could live long enough to see who and what will bring you crashing down! A fascinating fellow, however. Most definitely a prodigy of some sort. He was not the stuff of a loyal subordinate, so much was sure. No, Pompey the Great was a rival. And saw himself as a rival. Already. At twenty-two. The veteran troops he had brought with him Sulla knew how to use; but how best to use Pompey the Great? Give him plenty of free rein to run with, certainly. Make sure he was not given a task he couldn’t do. Flatter him, exalt him, never prick his monumental conceit. Give him to understand that he is the user, and never let him see that he is the one being used. I will be dead long before he is brought crashing down, because while I am alive, I will make sure no one does that to him. He’s far too useful. Too … Valuable.
The mule upon which Sulla rode squealed, tossed its head in agreement. But, ever mindful of his face, Sulla did not smile at the mule’s sagacity. He was waiting. Waiting for a jar of ointment and a recipe from which to make further jars of ointment. Almost ten years ago he had first experienced this skin disease, on his way back from the Euphrates. How satisfying that expedition had been!
His son had come along, Julilla’s son who in his adolescence had turned out to be the friend and confidant Sulla had never owned before. The perfect participant in a perfect relationship. How they had talked! About anything and everything. The boy had been able to forgive his father so many things Sulla had never been able to forgive himself—oh, not murders and other necessary practicalities, they were just the things a man’s life forced him to do. But emotional mistakes, weaknesses of the mind dictated by longings and inclinations reason shouted were stupid, futile. How gravely Young Sulla had listened, how completely had he, so short in years, understood. Comforted. Produced excuses which at the time had even seemed to hold water. And Sulla’s rather barren world had glowed, expanded, promised a depth and dimension only this beloved son could give it. Then, safely home from the journey beyond the Euphrates and Roman experience, Young Sulla had died. Just like that. Over and done with in two tiny little insignificant days. Gone the friend, gone the confidant. Gone the beloved son.
The tears stung, welled up—no! No! He could not weep, must not weep! Let one drop trickle down his cheek, and the itchy torment would begin. Ointment. He must concentrate upon the idea of the ointment. Morsimus had found it in some forgotten village somewhere near the Pyramus River of Cilicia Pedia, and it had soothed, healed him.
Six months ago he had sent to Morsimus, now an ethnarch
in Tarsus, and begged him to find that ointment, even if he had to search every settlement in Cilicia Pedia. Could he but find it again—and, more importantly, its recipe—his skin would return to normal. And in the meantime, he waited. Suffered. Became ever greater. Do you hear that, Pompey the Great?
He turned in his saddle and beckoned to where behind him rode Metellus Pius the Piglet and Marcus Crassus (Pompey the Great was bringing up the rear at the head of his three legions).
“I have a problem,” he said when Metellus Pius and Crassus drew level with him.
“Who?” asked the Piglet shrewdly.
“Oh, very good! Our esteemed Philippus,” said Sulla, no expression creasing his face.
“Well, even if we didn’t have Appius Claudius along, Lucius Philippus would present a problem,” said Crassus, the abacus of his mind clicking from unum to duo, ”but there’s no denying Appius Claudius makes it worse. You’d think the fact that Appius Claudius is Philippus’s uncle would have kept him from expelling Appius Claudius from the Senate, but it didn’t.”
“Probably because nephew Philippus is some years older than uncle Appius Claudius,” said Sulla, entertained by this opinion.
“What exactly do you want to do with the problem?” asked Metellus Pius, unwilling to let his companions drift off into the complexities of Roman upper—class blood relationships.
“I know what I’d like to do, but whether or not it’s even possible rests with you, Crassus,” said Sulla.
Crassus blinked. “How could it affect me?”
Tipping back his shady straw hat, Sulla looked at his legate with a little more warmth in his eyes than of yore; and Crassus, in spite of himself, felt an uplift in the region of his breast. Sulla was deferring to him!
“It’s all very well to be marching along buying grain and foodstuffs from the local farmers,” Sulla began, his words a trifle slurred these days because of his lack of teeth, “but by the end of summer we will need a harvest I can ship from one place. It doesn’t have to be a harvest the size of Sicily’s or Africa’s, but it does have to provide the staple for my army. And I am confident that my army will increase in size as time goes on.”
“Surely,” said Metellus Pius carefully, “by the autumn we’ll have all the grain we need from Sicily and Africa. By the autumn we will have taken Rome.”
“I doubt that.”
“But why? Rome’s rotting from within!”
Sulla sighed, his lips flapping. “Piglet dear, if I am to help Rome recover, then I have to give Rome a chance to decide in my favor peacefully. Now that is not going to happen by the autumn. So I can’t appear too threatening, I can’t march at the double up the Via Latina and attack Rome the way Cinna and Marius descended upon her after I left for the east. When I marched on Rome the first time, I had surprise on my side. No one believed I would. So no one opposed me except a few slaves and mercenaries belonging to Gaius Marius. But this time is different. Everyone expects me to march on Rome. If I do that too quickly, I’ll never win. Oh, Rome would fall! But every nest of insurgents, every school of opposition would harden. It would take me longer than I have left to live to put resistance down. I can’t afford the time or the effort. So I’ll go very slowly toward Rome.”
Metellus Pius digested this, and saw the sense of it. With a gladness he couldn’t quite conceal from those glacial eyes in their sore sockets. Wisdom was not a quality he associated with any Roman nobleman; Roman noblemen were too political in their thinking to be wise. Everything was of the moment, seen in the short term. Even Scaurus Princeps Senatus, for all his experience and his vast auctoritas, had not been wise. Any more than had the Piglet’s own father, Metellus Numidicus. Brave. Fearless. Determined. Unyielding of principle. But never wise. So it cheered the Piglet immensely to know that he rode down the long road to Rome with a wise man, for he was a Caecilius Metellus and he had a foot in both camps, despite his personal choice of Sulla. If there was any aspect of this undertaking from which he shrank, it was the knowledge that—try though he might to avoid it—he would inevitably end in ruining a good proportion of his blood or marital relations. Therefore he appreciated the wisdom of advancing slowly upon Rome; some of the Caecilii Metelli who at the moment supported Carbo might see the error of their ways before it was too late.
Of course Sulla knew exactly how the Piglet’s mind was working, and let him finish his thoughts in peace. His own thoughts were upon his task as he stared between the mournful flops of his mule’s ears. I am back in Italy and soon Campania, that cornucopia of all the good things from the earth, will loom in the distance—green, rolling, soft of mountain, sweet of water. And if I deliberately exclude Rome from my inner gaze, Rome will not eat at me the way this itching does. Rome will be mine. But, though my crimes have been many and my contrition none, I have never liked so much as the idea of rape. Better by far that Rome comes to me consenting, than that I am forced to rape her….
“You may have noticed that ever since I landed in Brundisium I have been sending written letters to all the leaders of the old Italian Allies, promising them that I will see every last Italian properly enrolled as a citizen of Rome according to the laws and treaties negotiated at the end of the Italian War. I will even see them distributed across the full gamut of the thirty-five tribes. Believe me, Piglet, I will bend like a strand of spider’s web in the wind before I attack Rome!”
“What have the Italians to do with Rome?” asked Metellus Pius, who had never been in favor of granting the full Roman citizenship to the Italians, and had secretly applauded Philippus as censor because Philippus and his fellow censor, Perperna, had avoided enrolling the Italians as Roman citizens.
“Between Pompeius and me, we’ve marched through much of the territory which fought against Rome without encountering anything beyond welcome—and perhaps hope that I will change the situation in Rome concerning their citizenships. Italian support will be a help to me in persuading Rome to yield peacefully.”
“I doubt it,” said Metellus Pius stiffly, “but I daresay you know what you’re doing. Let’s get back to the subject of Philippus, who is a problem.”
“Certainly!” said Sulla, eyes dancing.
“What has Philippus to do with me?” asked Crassus, deeming it high time he intruded himself into what had become a duet.
“I have to get rid of him, Marcus Crassus. But as painlessly as possible, given the fact that somehow he has managed to turn himself into a hallowed Roman institution.”
“That’s because he has become everybody’s ideal of the dedicated political contortionist,” said the Piglet, grinning.
“Not a bad description,” said Sulla, nodding instead of trying to smile. “Now, my big and ostensibly placid friend Marcus Crassus, I am going to ask you a question. I require an honest answer. Given your sad reputation, are you capable of giving me an honest answer?’’
This sally did not appear even to dent Crassus’s oxlike composure. “I will do my best, Lucius Cornelius.”
“Are you passionately attached to your Spanish troops?”
“Considering that you keep making me find provisions for them, no, I am not,” said Crassus.
“Good! Would you part with them?”
“If you think we can do without them, yes.”
“Good! Then with your splendidly phlegmatic consent, my dear Marcus, I’ll bring down several quarry with the same arrow. It is my intention to give your Spaniards to Philippus—he can take and hold Sardinia for me. When the Sardinian harvest comes in, he will send all of it to me,” said Sulla. He reached for the hide flask of pale sour wine tied to one horn of his saddle, lifted it, and squirted liquid expertly into his gummy mouth; not a drop fell on his face.
“Philippus will refuse to go,” said Metellus Pius flatly.
“No, he won’t. He’ll love the commission,” said Sulla,capping the birdlike neck of his wineskin. “He’ll be the full and undisputed master of all he surveys, and the Sardinian brigands will greet him like a brothe
r. He makes every last one of them look virtuous.”
Doubt began to gnaw at Crassus, who rumbled deeply in his throat, but said no word.
“Wondering what you’ll do without troops to command?”
“Something like that,” said Crassus cautiously.
“You could make yourself very useful to me,” said Sulla in casual tones.
“How?”
“Your mother and your wife are both from prominent Sabine families. How about going to Reate and starting to recruit for me? You could commence there, and finish among the Marsi.” Out went Sulla’s hand, clasped the heavy wrist of Crassus. “Believe me, Marcus Crassus, in the spring of next year there will be much military work for you to do, and good troops—Italian, if not Roman—for you to command.”
“That suits me,” said Crassus. “It’s a deal.”
“Oh, if only everything could be solved so easily and so well!” cried Sulla, reaching once more for his wineskin.
Crassus and Metellus Pius exchanged glances across the bent head of silly artificial curls; he might say he drank to ease the itching, but the truth appeared more to be that nowadays Sulla couldn’t go for very long without wetting his whistle. Somewhere down the nightmare alley of his physical torments, he had embraced his palliative with a permanent and enduring love. But did he know it? Or did he not?
Had they found the courage to ask him, Sulla would have told them readily. Yes, he knew it. Nor did he care who else knew it, including the fact that his deceptively weak-looking vintage was actually strongly fortified. Forbidden bread, honey, fruit and cakes, little in his diet did he truly like. The physicians of Aedepsus had been right to remove all those tasty things from his food intake, of that he had no doubt. When he had come to them, he knew he was dying. First he had endured an insatiable craving for sweet and starchy things, and put on so much weight that even his mule had complained about the burden of carrying him; then he began to experience numbness and tingling in both feet, burnings and pains too as time went on, so that the moment he lay down to sleep, his wretched feet refused to let him. The sensations crept into his ankles and lower legs, sleep became harder and harder to find. So he added a heavy; very sweet and fortified wine to his customary fare, and used it to drug himself into sleeping. Until the day when he had found himself sweating, gasping—and losing weight so quickly that he could almost see himself disappearing. He drank flagons of water one after the other, yet still was thirsty. And—most terrifying of all!—his eyes began to fail.
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