“Why? Because I’m a girl?”
“No, because you are under age. Your sex is immaterial. The lex Minicia de liberis says children of a Roman and a non—Roman must take the citizenship of the non—Roman parent. That means—at least according to the priests—that you now have the status of a foreigner.”
She began to shiver, though not to weep, her enormous dark eyes staring into Caesar’s face with painful apprehension.
“Oh! Does that mean I am no longer your wife?”
“No, Cinnilla, it does not. You are my wife until the day one of us dies, for we are married in the old form. No law forbids a Roman to marry a non—Roman, so our marriage is not in doubt. What is in doubt is your citizen status—and the citizen status of all the other children of a proscribed man who were under age at the time of proscription. Is that clear?’’
“I think so.” The expression of frowning concentration did not lighten. “Does that mean that if I give you children, they will not be Roman citizens?”
“Under the lex Minicia, yes.”
“Oh, Caesar, how terrible!”
“Yes.”
“But I am a patrician!”
“Not any longer, Cinnilla.”
“What can I do?”
“For the moment, nothing. But Sulla knows that he has to clarify his laws in this respect, so we will just have to hope that he does so in a way which allows our children to be Roman, even if you are not.” His hold tightened a little. “Today Sulla summoned me and ordered me to divorce you.”
Now the tears came, silently, tragically. Even at eighteen Caesar had experienced women’s tears with what had become boring regularity, usually turned on when he tired of someone, or someone discovered he was intriguing elsewhere. Such tears annoyed him, tried his sudden and very hot temper. Though he had learned to control it rigidly, it always flashed out when women produced tears, and the results were shattering—for the weeper. Whereas Cinnilla’s tears were pure grief and Caesar’s temper was only for Sulla, who had made Cinnilla cry.
“It’s all right, my little love,” he said, gathering her closer. “I wouldn’t divorce you if Jupiter Optimus Maximus came down in person and ordered it! Not if I lived to be a thousand would I divorce you!”
She giggled and snuffled, let him dry her face with his handkerchief. “Blow!” he commanded. She blew. “Now that’s quite enough. There’s no need to cry. You are my wife, and you will stay my wife no matter what.”
One arm stole round his neck, she put her face into his shoulder and sighed happily. “Oh, Caesar, I do love you! It’s so hard to wait to grow up!”
That shocked him. So did the feel of her budding breasts, for he was wearing only a tunic. He put his cheek against her hair but delicately loosened his hold on her, unwilling to start something his honor wouldn’t let him finish.
“Jupiter Optimus Maximus doesn’t have a person to come down in,” she said, good Roman child who knew her theology. “He is everywhere that Rome is—that’s why Rome is Best and Greatest.”
“What a good flaminica Dialis you would have made!”
“I would have tried. For you.” She lifted her head to look at him. “If Sulla ordered you to divorce me and you said no, does that mean he will try to kill you? Is that why you’re going away, Caesar?”
“He will certainly try to kill me, and that is why I’m going away. If I stayed in Rome, he would be able to kill me easily. There are too many of his creatures, and no one knows their names or faces. But in the country I stand a better chance.” He jogged her up and down on his knee as he had when she had come first to live with them. “You mustn’t worry about me, Cinnilla. My life strand is tough—too tough for Sulla’s shears, I’ll bet! Your job is to keep Mater from worrying.”
“I’ll try,” she said, and kissed him on his cheek, too unsure of herself to do what she wanted to do, kiss him on his mouth and say she was old enough.
“Good!” he said. He pushed her off his lap and got to his feet. “I’ll be back after Sulla dies,” he said, and left.
*
When Caesar arrived at the Quirinal Gate he found Lucius Decumius and his sons waiting. The two mules were panniered with the money evenly divided between them, which meant neither was carrying anything like a full load. There were no leather moneybags in evidence; instead, Lucius Decumius had put the cash in false compartments lining what looked like—and were!—book buckets stuffed with scrolls.
“You didn’t make these in a few hours today,” Caesar said, grinning. “Is this how you shift your own loot around?”
“Go and talk to your horse—but first, a word in your ear. Let Burgundus lift the money,” Lucius Decumius lectured, and turned to the German with such a fierce look upon his face that Burgundus took an involuntary step backward.
“Now see here, lout, you make sure when you lifts those buckets that you makes it seem like you was lifting feathers, hear me?”
Burgundus nodded. “I hear, Lucius Decumius. Feathers.”
“Now put all your other baggage on top of them books—and if the boy takes off like the wind, you hang on to them mules no matter what!”
Caesar was standing at his horse’s head, cheek against cheek, murmuring endearments. Only when the rest of the baggage had been tied onto the mules did he move, and then it was to allow Burgundus to toss him into the saddle.
“You look after yourself, Pavo!” shrilled Lucius Decumius into the wind, eyes tearing. He reached up his grubby hand.
Caesar the cleanliness fanatic leaned down, took it, and kissed it. “Yes, dad!”
And then they were gone into the wall of snow.
Burgundus’s mount was the Caesar family steed, and almost as expensive as Bucephalus. A Nesaean from Median bloodstock, it was much bigger than the horses of the peoples around the Middle Sea. Nesaeans were few and far between in Italy, as they could be used for nothing else than bearing oversized riders. Many farmers and traders had eyed them longingly, wishing they could be employed as beasts of burden or attached to heavy wagons and ploughs because they were both speedier and more intelligent than oxen. But, alas, when yoked to pull a load they strangled; the forward movement pressed the harness against their windpipes. As pack animals they were useless too; they ate too much to pay their way. An ordinary horse, however, could not have taken Burgundus’s weight, and though a good mule might have, on a mule Burgundus’s feet literally skimmed the ground.
Caesar led the way toward Crustumerium, hunched down in the lee of Bucephalus’s head—oh, it was a cold winter!
They pressed on through the night to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Rome, and paused only when the next night threatened. By then they had reached Trebula, not far from the crest of the first range of mountains. It was a small place, but boasted an accommodation house which also served as the local tavern, and was therefore noisy, overcrowded, and very hot. The general atmosphere of dirt and neglect did not please Caesar in the least.
“Still, it’s a roof and a sort of a bed,” he said to Burgundus after inspecting a room upstairs where they were to sleep—along with several shepherd dogs and six hens.
Of course they attracted a considerable amount of attention from their fellow patrons, who were all locals there to drink wine; most would be fit to stagger home again through the snow, but some (so Mine Host confided) would spend the night wherever they happened to be lying when they fell over.
“There’s sausages and bread,” said Mine Host.
“We’ll have both,” said Caesar.
“Wine?”
“Water,” said Caesar firmly.
“Too young to drink?” Mine Host demanded, not pleased. His profit was in the wine.
“My mother would kill me if I took a single sip.”
“What’s wrong with your friend, then? He’s old enough.”
“Yes, but he’s mentally retarded, and you wouldn’t want to see him with a bit of wine in him—he pulls Hyrcanian bears apart with his hands,
and did in two lions some praetor in Rome thought he was going to show at the games,” said Caesar with a straight face; Burgundus just looked vacant.
“Oooer!” said Mine Host, and retreated quickly.
No one ever tried to bother Caesar when he had Burgundus for company, so they were able to sit in the most peaceful part of that turbulent room and watch the local sport, which mostly seemed to consist in plying the drunkest youngster there with more wine and speculating upon how much longer he would manage to keep it down.
“Country life!” said Caesar, slapping at his bare arm. “You’d never think Rome was close enough for these yokels to vote every year, would you? Not to mention that their votes count because they belong to rural tribes, whereas canny fellows up to every political trick but unfortunate enough to own Rome as their birthplace have votes that are worthless. Not right!”
“They can’t even read,” said Burgundus, who could these days because Caesar and Gnipho had taught him. His slow smile dawned. “That’s good, Caesar. Our book buckets are safe.”
“Quite so.” Caesar slapped at his arm again. “The place is full of mosquitoes, wretched things!”
“Come in for the winter,” said Burgundus. “Hot enough to boil eggs in here.”
An exaggeration, but the room was certainly unbearably hot, a combination of the bodies jammed into a confined space and a huge fire which roared away inside a thick stone box let into the side of the room; though the box was open at the top to let the smoke out, no cold could compete with several logs as big around as a man’s waist sending great tongues of flame into the smoke hole; clearly the men of Trebula, literally with timber to burn, disliked being cold.
If the dark corners were full of mosquitoes, the beds were full of fleas and bugs; Caesar spent the night on a hard chair and quit the place thankfully at dawn to ride on. Behind him he left much speculation as to why he and his giant servant were abroad in such weather—and what class of man he was.
“Very uppish!” said Mine Host.
“Proscriptions,” suggested Mine Host’s wife.
“Too young,” said a rather urban-looking fellow who had arrived just as Caesar and Burgundus were departing. “Besides, they’d have looked a lot more frightened if Sulla was after them!”
“Then he’s on his way to visit someone,” said the wife.
“Very likely,” said the stranger, looking suddenly unsure. “Might bear investigating, though. Can’t mistake the pair of them, can you? Achilles and Ajax,” he ended, displaying a morsel of education. “The thing that struck me was the horses. Worth a fortune! There’s money there.”
“Probably owns a bit of the rosea rura at Reate,” said Mine Host. “It’s where the horses come from, I’ll bet.”
“He has a look of the Palatine about him,” said the newcomer, whose thoughts were now definitely suspicious. “One of the Famous Families, in fact. Yes, there’s money there.”
“Well, if there is it’s not with him,” said Mine Host, disgruntled. “Know what they had on those mules? Books! A dozen great buckets of books! I ask you—books!”
*
Having battled worsening weather as they climbed higher into the ranges around the Mons Fiscellus, Caesar and Burgundus finally arrived in Nersae a full day later.
The mother of Quintus Sertorius had been a widow for over thirty years, and looked as if she had never had a husband. She always reminded Caesar of the late, much-lamented Scaurus Princeps Senatus, for she was little and slight, incredibly wrinkled, very bald for a woman, and owned one remarkable focus of beauty, a pair of vivid green eyes; that she could ever have borne a child as massive as Quintus Sertorius was hard to imagine.
“He’s all right,” she said to Caesar as she loaded her old and well-scrubbed table with goodies from her smokehouse and her larder; this was country living, everyone sat on chairs at a table to eat. “Didn’t have any trouble setting himself up as governor of Nearer Spain, but he’s expecting big trouble now that Sulla has made himself Dictator.” She chuckled gleefully. “Never mind, never mind, he’ll make life harder for Sulla than that poor boy of my cousin Marius’s. Brought up too soft, of course. Lovely lady, Julia. But too soft, and my cousin Marius was too much away when the boy was growing up. That was true of you too, Caesar, but your mother wasn’t soft, was she?”
“No, Ria,” said Caesar, smiling into her eyes.
“Anyway, Quintus Sertorius likes Spain. He always did. He and Sulla were there when they went poking about among the Germans years ago. He’s got a German wife and son in Osca, he tells me. I’m glad for that. Otherwise there’ll be no one after he goes.”
“He ought to marry a Roman woman,” said Caesar austerely.
Ria emitted a cracked laugh. “Not him! Not my Quintus Sertorius! Doesn’t like women. The German one got him because he had to have a wife to get inside the tribe. No, doesn’t like women”—she pursed her lips and shook her head—“but doesn’t like men either.”
The conversation revolved around Quintus Sertorius and his deeds for some time, but eventually Ria talked herself out on the subject of her son, and got down to what Caesar must do.
“I’d gladly have you myself, but the connection is too well known, and you’re not the first refugee I’ve had—my cousin Marius sent me the king of the Volcae Tectosages, no less—name was Copillus. Very nice man! Quite civilized for a barbarian. They strangled him in the Carcer after my cousin Marius triumphed, of course. Still, I was able to make a nice little nest egg out of taking care of him for my cousin Marius all those years. Four, I think it was…. He was always generous, my cousin Marius. Paid me a fortune for that job. I would have done it for nothing. Company, Copillus was…. Quintus Sertorius is not a homebody. Likes to fight.” She shrugged, slapped her knees briskly, got down to business. “There’s a couple I know live in the mountains between here and Amiternum. They’d be glad of some extra money, and you can trust them—I say that in truth. I’ll give you a letter for them, and directions when you’re ready to go.”
“Tomorrow,” said Caesar.
But she shook her head. “Not tomorrow! Not the day after, either. We’re in for a big storm and you won’t be able to find the road or know what’s underneath you. The German there would be under the ice in a river before he even knew there was a river! You’ll have to stay with me until the winter sets.”
“Sets?”
“Gets its first nasty storms over and the freeze sets in. Then it’s safe to travel, everything is solid ice. Hard on the horses, but you’ll get there. Make the German go first, his horse’s hooves are so big the creature won’t slip much and will break the surface for your dainty creature. Fancy bringing a horse like that up here in winter! You have no sense, Caesar.”
He looked rueful. “So my mother told me.”
“She has sense. Sabine country folk are horse folk. That pretty animal is noticed. Just as well where you’re going there’s no one to notice.” Ria grinned, revealing a few black teeth. “But you’re only eighteen, after all. You’ll learn!”
The next day proved Ria right about the weather; the snow continued unabated until it piled up in massive drifts. Had Caesar and Burgundus not got to work and shoveled it away, Ria’s cozy stone house would soon have been snowed in, and even Burgundus would not have been able to open the door. For four more days it snowed, then patches of blue sky began to appear; the air grew much colder.
“I like the winter up here,” said Ria, helping them pile straw warmly in the stables. “In Rome, a cold one is a misery, and we’re going through the cold winter cycle this decade. But up here at least it’s clean and dry, no matter how cold.”
“I must get away soon,” said Caesar, dealing with hay.
“Considering the amounts your German and his nag eat, I will be glad to see you away,” said Sertorius’s mother between grunts. “Not tomorrow. Perhaps the day after. Once it’s possible to travel between Rome and Nersae you won’t be safe here. If Sulla remembers me—and he should, h
e knew my son very well-then he will send his hirelings here first.”
But Ria’s guests were not destined to leave. On the night before the start was planned, Caesar began to ail. Though it was indeed far below freezing outside, the house was well warmed through in country fashion, braziers against its thick stone walls and good stout shutters to keep out every wind. Yet Caesar was cold, and grew colder.
“I don’t like this,” Ria said to him. “I can hear your teeth. But it’s been going on too long to be a simple ague.” She put her hand upon his forehead and winced. “You’re burning up! Have you a headache?”
“Bad,” he muttered.
“Then you’re not going anywhere tomorrow. Look to it, you German lump! Get your master into his bed.”
In his bed Caesar remained, consumed with fever, racked by a dry cough and a perpetual headache, and unable to keep any food down.
“Caelum grave et pestilens,’’ said the wisewoman when she came to see the patient.
“It isn’t a typical ague,” said Ria stubbornly. “It’s not quartan and it’s not tertian. And he doesn’t sweat.”
“Oh, it’s the ague, Ria. The one without a pattern.”
“Then he’ll die!”
“He’s strong,” said the wisewoman. “Make him drink. I can give you no better advice. Water mixed with snow.”
*
Sulla was preparing to read a letter from Pompey in Africa when the steward Chrysogonus came to him looking flustered.
“What is it? I’m busy, I want to read this!”
“Domine, a lady wishes to see you.”
“Tell her to buzz off.”
“Domine, I cannot!”
That took Sulla’s mind off the letter; he lowered it and stared at Chrysogonus in astonishment. “I didn’t think there was anyone alive could defeat you,” he said, beginning to be amused. “You’re shaking, Chrysogonus. Did she bite you?”
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 271