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

by Colleen McCullough

  “No, domine,” said the steward, who had absolutely no sense of humor. “However, I thought she might kill me.”

  “Oh! I think I have to see this lady. Did she give you a name? Is she mortal?”

  “She said, Aurelia.”

  Sulla extended his hand and watched it. “No, I’m not in a pother yet!”

  “Shall I bring her in?”

  . “No. Tell her I don’t want to see her ever again,” Sulla said, but did not pick up Pompey’s letter; his interest in it had waned.

  “Domine, she refuses to go until she’s seen you!”

  “Then have the servants carry her out.”

  “I tried, domine. They wouldn’t lay a finger on her.”

  “Yes, that would be right!” Sulla huffed, closed his eyes. “All right, Chrysogonus, send her in.” And when Aurelia marched in he said, “Sit down.”

  She sat, the glaring winter light bathing her without mercy, once more showing Sulla’s wreckage how powerless perfect bones could render time. In his general’s quarters at Teanum the light had been so bad he hadn’t really seen her properly, so now he looked his fill. Too thin, and that ought to have made her less beautiful; instead it made her more, and the rosy flush which used to suffuse her lips and cheeks had faded away to leave her skin marmoreal. The hair had not greyed, nor had she yielded to a wish to bring back her youth by softening the style in which she wore it; it was still scraped back from her face into an uncompromising bun on the nape of her neck. And the eyes were so lovely, set in thick black lashes beneath feathered black brows. They gazed at him sternly.

  “Come about your boy, I suppose,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  “I have.”

  “Then speak! I’m listening.”

  “Was it because he looks so like your son?”

  Shaken, he could not continue to meet her gaze, stared at Pompey’s letter until the pain of that barb had dissipated. “It was a shock when I first set eyes on him, but no.” His eyes came back to hers, cold and goatish.

  “I liked your son, Lucius Cornelius.”

  “And this is no way to get what you want, Aurelia. My boy died a long time ago. I’ve learned to live with it, even when people like you try to make capital out of it.”

  “So you do know what I want.”

  “Certainly.” He tipped the chair back, not easy with the backward—curving legs of a sturdy Roman—designed version. “You want me to spare your son. Even though mine was not spared.”

  “You can hardly blame me or my son for that!”

  “I can blame anyone I like for anything I like! I am the Dictator!” he shouted, beads of foam at the corners of his lips.

  “Rubbish, Sulla! You don’t believe that any more than I do! I am here to ask you to spare my son, who does not deserve to die any more than he deserved to be made flamen Dialis.’’

  “I agree, he’s not the right type for the job. But he’s got it. You must have wanted it for him.”

  “I did not want him to be flamen Dialis, any more than my husband did. We were told. By Marius himself, in between his atrocities,” Aurelia said, lifting her lip just enough to indicate her disgust. “It was also Marius who told Cinna to give my son his daughter. The last thing Cinna wanted was to see Cinnilla made flaminica Dialis!”

  Sulla changed the subject. “You’ve given up wearing those lovely colors you used to like,” he said. “That bone thing you have on doesn’t even begin to do you justice.”

  “Oh, rubbish again!” she snapped. “I am not here to please your discriminating eye, I’m here to plead for my son!”

  “It would please me very much to spare your son. He knows what he has to do. Divorce Cinna’s brat.”

  “He won’t divorce her.”

  “Why not?” shouted Sulla, leaping to his feet. “Why not?”

  A little color crept into her cheeks, reddened her lips. “Because, you fool, you showed him that she’s his way out of a job he loathes with all his being! Divorce her, and remain the flamen Dialis for the rest of his life? He’d rather be dead!”

  Sulla gaped. “What?”

  “You’re a fool, Sulla! A fool! He’ll never divorce her!”

  “Don’t you criticize me!”

  “I’ll say what I like to you, you evil old relic!”

  A peculiar silence fell, and Sulla’s rage trickled away as fast as Aurelia’s gathered. He had turned to the window, but now he turned back to stare at her with something more on his mind than anger or the ordeal she had become.

  “Let’s start again,” he said. “Tell me why Marius made your son the flamen Dialis if none of you wanted it.”

  “It has to do with the prophecy,” she said.

  “Yes, I know about that. Consul seven times, Third Founder of Rome—he used to tell everyone.”

  “But not all of it. There was a second part he told to no one until his mind was failing. Then he told Young Marius, who told Julia, who told me.”

  Sulla sat down again, frowning. “Go on,” he said curtly.

  “The second part of the prophecy concerned my son. Caesar. Old Martha foretold that he would be the greatest Roman of all time. And Gaius Marius believed her about that too. He saddled Caesar with the flaminate Dialis to prevent his going to war and enjoying a political career.” Aurelia sat down, white—faced.

  “Because a man who cannot go to war and cannot seek the consulship can never shine,” said Sulla, nodding. He whistled. “Clever Marius! Brilliant! Make your rival the flamen Dialis and you’ve won. I didn’t think the old beast was so subtle.”

  “Oh, he was subtle!”

  “An interesting story,” Sulla said then, and picked up Pompey’s letter. “You can go, I’ve heard you out.”

  “Spare my son!”

  “Not unless he divorces Cinna’s daughter.”

  “He will never do that.”

  “Then there is no more to be said. Go away, Aurelia.”

  One more try. One more try for Caesar. “I wept for you once. You loved that. Now I find myself wanting to weep foryou again. But you wouldn’t love these tears. They would be to mourn the passing of a great man. For now I see a man who has diminished inside himself so much that he’s reduced to preying upon children. Cinna’s daughter is twelve years old. My son is eighteen. Children! Yet Cinna’s widow strolls brazenly through Rome because she’s someone else’s wife, and that someone else belongs to you. Cinna’s son is left penniless, with no alternative than to leave his country. Another child. While Cinna’s widow thrives. Not a child.” She sneered at him, made a derisory sound. “Annia is a redhead, of course. Is that some of her hair on your naked old pate?’’

  After which sally she swung on her heel and walked out.

  Chrysogonus came bustling in.

  “I want someone found,” said Sulla, looking his nastiest. “Found, Chrysogonus, not proscribed and not killed.”

  Dying to know what had transpired between his master and that extraordinary woman—they had a past together, nothing was surer!—the steward heaved an inward sigh; he would never know. So he said very smoothly, “A private transaction, is it?”

  “That’s as good a way of putting it as any! Yes, a private transaction. Two talents reward for the fellow who locates one Gaius Julius Caesar, the flamen Dialis. Who is to be brought to me with not so much as one hair of his head disturbed! Make sure they all know, Chrysogonus. No man kills the flamen Dialis. I just want him here. Understand?’’

  “Of course, domine.” But the steward made no move to go. Instead he coughed delicately.

  Sulla’s eyes had drifted back to Pompey’s letter, but he lifted his head at this. “Yes?”

  “I have prepared the outline you wanted, domine, at the time I first asked you if I might be appointed the bureaucrat in charge of administering the proscriptions. I have also found a deputy steward for you to interview, in the event that you should agree to allow me to administer the proscriptions.”

  The smile was not nice. “
You really believe you can cope with two jobs, do you? If I give you a deputy steward.”

  “It is best if I do both jobs, domine, truly. Read my outline. It will show you conclusively that I do understand the nature of this particular administrative task. Why put some Treasury professional in the job when he’d prove too timid to seek clarification of his problems from you personally, and would be too mired in Treasury methods to take advantage of the more commercial aspects of the job?’’

  “I’ll think about it and let you know,” said Sulla, picking up Pompey’s hapless letter yet again. Impassively he watched the steward bow his way out of the room, then grinned sourly. Abominable creature! Toad! Yet that, he reflected, was what administration of the proscriptions required—someone absolutely abominable. But trustworthy. If the administrator were Chrysogonus, Sulla could be sure that disastrous liberties would not take place. No doubt Chrysogonus would make a fat profit for himself somewhere, but no one was in a better position than Chrysogonus to know that it would go very ill with him if he made his profit in any way which would reflect personally on Sulla. The business end of the proscriptions had to be conducted in a positive cloud of respectability—sale of properties, disposal of cash assets, jewelry, furniture, works of art, stocks and shares. It was impossible for Sulla to administrate all of this himself, so someone would have to do it. Chrysogonus was right. Better him than a Treasury bureaucrat! Put one of those fellows on the job and nothing would ever get done. The work had to proceed expeditiously. But no one could be given the opportunity to say that Sulla himself had profited at the State’s expense. Though Chrysogonus was a freedman now, that made him no less Sulla’s creature; and Chrysogonus knew his master would have no qualms about killing him if he erred.

  Satisfied that he had solved the chief dilemma of the proscriptions, Sulla returned to pore over Pompey’s letter.

  Africa Province and Numidia are both pacified and quiet. The task took me forty days. I left Lilybaeum at the end of October with six legions and two thousand of my horse, leaving Gaius Memmius in charge of Sicily. I did not consider there was any need to garrison Sicily. I had already begun to assemble ships when I first arrived in Sicily, and by the end of October there were more than eight hundred transports on hand. I always like to be well organized, it saves so much time. Just before I sailed, I sent a messenger to King Bogud of Mauretania, who keeps his army these days in Iol, not so far away as Tingis. Bogud is now ruling from Iol, and has put a minor king, Ascalis, in Tingis. All these changes are because of the strife in Numidia, where Prince Iarbas has usurped King Hiempsal’s throne. My messenger instructed King Bogud to mount an invasion of Numidia from the west immediately, no excuses for delay. My strategy was to have King Bogud push Iarbas eastward until he encountered me and I could roll him up.

  I landed my men in two divisions, one half at Old Carthage, the second half at Utica. I commanded the second division myself. The moment I stepped ashore, I received the submission of seven thousand of Gnaeus Ahenobarbus’s men, which I took as a good omen. Ahenobarbus decided to give battle at once. He was afraid that if he did not, more of his men would desert to me. He deployed his army on the far side of a ravine, thinking to ambush me as I marched through. But I went up on a high crag and saw his army. So I did not fall into his trap. It began to rain (winter is the rainy season in Africa Province) and I took advantage of the fact that the rain was beating into the eyes of Ahenobarbus’s soldiers. I won a great battle and my men hailed me imperator on the field. But Ahenobarbus and three thousand of his men escaped unharmed. My men were still hailing me imperator on the field, but I stopped them by saying they could do that later. My men saw the truth of this and stopped hailing me imperator on the field. We all rushed to Ahenobarbus’s camp and killed him and all his men. I then allowed my men to hail me imperator on the field.

  I then marched into Numidia, Africa Province having surrendered all insurgents still at large. I executed them in Utica. Iarbas the usurper went to earth in Bulla Regis—a town on the upper Bagradas River—having heard that I was approaching from the east and Bogud from the west. Of course I got to Bulla Regis ahead of King Bogud. Bulla Regis opened its gates the moment I arrived, and surrendered Iarbas to me. I executed Iarbas at once, and also another baron called Masinissa. I reinstated King Hiempsal on his throne in Cirta. I myself found sufficient time to hunt wild animals. This country abounds in wild game of every description, from elephants to very large cattle-looking things. I write this from camp on the Numidian plain.

  I intend to return soon to Utica, having subdued the whole of North Africa in forty days, as I have already stated. It is not necessary to garrison our province there. You may send a governor without fear. I am going to put my six legions and two thousand horse on board my ships and sail for Tarentum. I will then march up the Via Appia to Rome, where I would like a triumph. My men have hailed me imperator on the field, therefore I am entitled to a triumph. I have pacified Sicily and Africa in one hundred days and executed all your enemies. I also have some good spoil to parade in my triumph.

  *

  By the time Sulla had worked out what Pompey said, he was weeping with laughter, not sure whether the missive’s artless confidences amused him more than its arrogance, or the imparting of information like winter being the rainy season and Bulla Regis being on the upper Bagradas—surely Pompey knew that Sulla had spent years in Africa and had single—handedly captured King Jugurtha? At the end of a mere forty days Pompey knew everything. How many times had he managed to say that his troops had hailed him imperator on the field? Oh, what a hoot!

  He pulled forward some paper and wrote to Pompey; this was one letter he didn’t intend to dictate to a secretary.

  What a pleasure to get your letter, and thank you for the interesting facts you impart about Africa. I must try to visit it someday, if for no other reason than to see for myself those very large cattle-looking things. Like you, I do know an elephant when I see one.

  Congratulations. What a speedy young chap you are! Forty days. That, I think, is the length of time Mesopotamia was inundated a thousand years ago.

  I know I can take your word for it that neither Africa nor Sicily needs to be garrisoned, but, my dear Pompeius, the niceties must be observed. I therefore command you to leave five of your legions in Utica and sail home with only one. I do not mind which one, if you have a favorite among them. Speaking of favorites, you are certainly one of Fortune’s favorites yourself!

  Unfortunately I cannot allow you to celebrate a triumph. Though your troops hailed you imperator on the field many times, triumphs are reserved for members of the Senate who have attained the status of praetor. You will win more wars in years to come, Pompeius, so you will have your triumph later, if not sooner.

  I must thank you too for the speedy dispatch of Carbo’s eating, seeing, hearing and smelling apparatus. There is nothing quite like a head to convince a man that another man has bitten the dust, to use a phrase of Homer’s. The force of my contention that Carbo was dead and Rome had no consuls was immediately apparent. How clever of you to pop it in vinegar! Thank you too for Soranus. And the elder Brutus.

  There is just one small thing, my dear Pompeius. I would have preferred that you had chosen a less public way to dispose of Carbo, if you were determined to do it in such barbaric fashion. I am beginning to believe what people say—scratch a man from Picenum, and reveal the Gaul. Once you elected to set yourself upon a tribunal with toga praetexta and curule chair and lictors, you became Rome. But you did not behave like a Roman. Having tormented poor Carbo for hours in the hot sun, you then announced in lordly tones that he did not deserve a trial, and was to be executed on the spot. Since you had housed and fed him atrociously for some days prior to this distressingly public hearing, he was ill. Yet when he begged you to allow him to retire and relieve his bowels in private before he died, you denied him! He died, so I am told, in his own shit but very well.

  How do I know all this? I have my sources. Did
I not, I doubt I would now be Dictator of Rome. You are very young and you made the mistake of assuming that because I wanted Carbo dead, I had no time for him. True enough in one way. But I have all the time in the world for the consulship of Rome. And the fact remains that Carbo was an elected consul at the time he died. You would do well to remember in future, young Pompeius, that all honor is due to the consul, even if his name is Gnaeus Papirius Carbo.

  On the subject of names, I hear that this barbaric episode in the agora of Lilybaeum has earned you a new name. A great benefit for one of those unfortunates with no third name to add a little luster, eh, Pompeius No Third Name? Adulescentulus carnifex. Kid Butcher. I think that is a wonderful third name for you, Kid Butcher! Like your father before you, you are a butcher.

  To repeat: five of your legions will remain in Utica to await the pleasure of the new governor when I find time to send one. You yourself are at liberty to come home. I look forward to seeing you. We can have a nice chat about elephants and you can educate me further on the subject of Africa and things African.

  I ought too to convey my condolences upon the death of Publius Antistius Vetus and his wife, your parents-in-law. It is hard to know why Brutus Damasippus included Antistius among his victims. But of course Brutus Damasippus is dead. I had him executed. Yet in private, Pompeius Kid Butcher. In private.

  And that, thought Sulla as he finished, is one letter I really did enjoy writing! But then he began to frown, and he sat thinking about what he ought to do with Kid Butcher for some time. This was one young man who would not easily let go of something once he had it in the center of his gaze. As he did this triumph. And anyone who could set himself up in all state in the public square of a non—Roman town, complete with lictors and curule chair, then behave like a complete barbarian, was not going to appreciate the nuances of triumphal protocol. Perhaps even then in the back of his mind he knew that Kid Butcher was cunning enough to go after his triumph in ways which might make it hard to go on refusing the triumph; for Sulla started plotting. His smile grew again, and when his secretary came in, the man breathed an involuntary sigh of relief to see it; he was in a good mood!