“Especially not a king!”
This was followed by salacious laughter. Lucius stepped forward. “What are you talking about?”
“Young Caesar’s escapades in the East,” said one of the gossips. “The praetor Thermus sent him on a mission to King Nicomedes in Bithynia. Once Caesar got there, he didn’t want to leave. It seems he hit it off with the king a little too well, if you know what I mean. All that high living in the royal court turned the boy’s head—and Nicomedes is a handsome fellow, to judge by his coins. Meanwhile, Thermus is like a spurned husband, sending messenger after messenger demanding that Caesar return, but Caesar can’t bear to leave the king’s bed!”
“How could you possibly know such a thing?” snapped Lucius. “If Caesar’s detained on a mission, there could be a hundred other explanations—”
“Please!” The gossip rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it. Did you hear the latest joke? Sulla let him keep his head—but Nicomedes took his maidenhead!”
There was a great deal of laughter. Lucius, disgusted, stalked away with his jaw tightly clenched. He made his hands into fists. Tears welled in his eyes. Was it for this that he had sacrificed everything? So that a fatuous young man could desert his military post to live in luxury in Bithynia? What sort of Roman was Caesar, to speak admiringly of Gaius Gracchus and daydream about rebuilding the Roman state, and then to run off and play catamite to a Bithynian monarch? Lucius should have let Sulla take the young fool and do what he wanted with him!
78 B.C.
Belying the worst fears of his enemies—those few who remained alive—Sulla made good on his promise to step down from the dictatorship after two years.
Declaring that his work was done, he restored full authority to the Senate and magistrates. In retirement he dictated his memoirs, and proudly boasted that, having rid Roma of the worst of the “troublemakers” (as he called those who opposed him), he had instituted reforms that would return the Republic “to the golden days before the Gracchi stirred the pot and threw everything into confusion.”
But could even Sulla could turn back time? Since the destruction of Carthage, Roman politics had been driven by tremendous wealth and headlong expansion, and the ever-greater injustices and inequalities that resulted. Roma needed powerful generals to conquer new territories and enslave new populations; how else could more wealth be accumulated? But what was to be done when those generals grew jealous and suspicious of one another, and a citizenry riven with greed and resentment was compelled to choose sides? Civil war had resulted once. Nothing in Sulla’s reforms would stop such a war from happening again. If anything, his example was an encouragement to would-be warlords with dreams of absolute power. Sulla had shown that a man could ruthlessly exterminate all opposition, declare his actions to be legitimate and legal, and then retire to live out his days in comfort and peace, beloved by the friends and supporters who had benefited from his largesse.
In the month of Martius, at his villa on the bay near Neapolis, at the age of sixty, Sulla died of natural causes. But his death was not an easy one, and in the revolting symptoms that plagued him some saw the hand of the goddess Nemesis, who restores balance to the natural order when injustice has been done.
The disease began with an ulceration of the bowels, aggravated by excessive drinking and sumptuous living. Then the corruption spread, and converted his flesh into worms. Day and night, physicians picked the worms away, but more worms appeared to take their place. Then the pores of his flesh discharged a vile flux in such quantities that his bed and his clothing were saturated with it. No amount of bathing and scouring could stop the oozing discharge.
Even in this wretched state, Sulla continued to conduct business. On the last full day of his life, he dictated the final chapter of his memoirs, concluding with this boast: “When I was young, a Chaldean soothsayer foretold to me that I would lead an honorable, upright life and end my days at the height of my prosperity. The soothsayer was right.”
Sulla’s secretary then reminded him that he had been requested to settle the case of a local magistrate accused of embezzling public funds. The magistrate, who wished to defend himself, was in the antechamber, awaiting an interview. Sulla agreed to see him.
The magistrate entered. Before the man could say a word, Sulla ordered the slaves in the room to strangle him on the spot. The slaves were Sulla’s private servants, not assassins; when they hesitated, Sulla became furious and shouted at them. The strain caused an abscess on his neck to rupture. He began to bleed profusely. In the resulting confusion, the magistrate ran for his life.
Physicians came to stanch the bleeding, but Sulla’s end had come. He became confused and lost consciousness. He survived the night, but died the next morning.
Some perverse but powerful inclination—the wish to see a dreadful episode to its bitter end, or the need to be absolutely certain that a terrifying creature is truly dead, beyond any doubt—drove Lucius Pinarius out of his house and into the streets to witness Sulla’s funeral.
The entire city turned out to watch the procession. Lucius found a spot with a good view, and wondered at his luck until he realized why the spot was vacant. A ragged beggar was standing nearby, emitting such a foul odor that all others had been driven away. Lucius ignored the stench. If he could stand the sight of Sulla on his funeral bier, he told himself, then surely he could endure the smell of a fellow human being.
Heading the procession was an image of Sulla himself, a duplicate of the equestrian statue in the Forum. As the effigy passed by, it emitted an odor of spices that overwhelmed even the stench of the beggar. The man looked at Lucius and flashed a toothless grin.
“They say that thing’s made of frankincense and cinnamon and all sorts of other costly spices. They took up a collection from all the rich women in Roma to have it sculpted. They’ll burn it on the funeral pyre along with Sulla. The smoke from it will perfume the whole city!”
Lucius wrinkled his brow. “Sulla’s to be cremated? His ancestors among the Cornelii were always interred.”
“Maybe so,” said the beggar, “but the dictator specified in his will that his remains are to be burned to ashes.” Such men, free to spend their days eavesdropping and collecting gossip, often knew what they were talking about. “You can imagine why.”
“Can I?”
“Think about it! What happened to Marius, Sulla’s rival, after he was dead? Sulla opened the crypt and took a shit on his body! There are those who’d do the same to Sulla, to have their revenge, never doubt it. Rather than give them the chance, he’s having himself cremated.”
Lucius looked sidelong at the beggar. The man was missing his left hand and leaned on a crutch under his right arm. There was a deep scar across his face and he appeared to be blind in one eye.
Following the effigy came the consuls and the other magistrates, and then the whole membership of the Senate, dressed in black. The leading Equestrians followed, then the Pontifex Maximus and the Vestal virgins. Then, by the hundreds, Sulla’s veterans came marching by, outfitted in their best armor and led by young Pompeius Magnus.
Musicians and a chorus of professional funeral singers, all women, followed. The musicians played a mournful tune on pipes and lyres, to which the chorus sang a song in praise of Sulla.
Mimes followed, breaking the somber mood with their buffoonery. Mimes were traditional at a wealthy man’s funeral, and among these were some of the most famous actors in Roma, members of Sulla’s inner circle since the days of his youth. The beggar felt obliged to point them out.
“Look, there’s Roscius the comedian! I saw him play the Swaggering Soldier once. They say he’s richer than most senators. And that’s old Metrobius, who always specialized in female roles. Played the leading lady in Sulla’s bed for years, they say, until that pretty-boy Chrysogonus took his place; getting on in years, but he still looks good in a stola. And of course that must be Sorex playing the archmime today, dressing up like Sulla and impersonating the dead m
an. He’s got the walk and hand gestures down perfectly, don’t you think? Let’s hope he doesn’t start chopping off people’s heads!”
The mimes were followed by the procession of Sulla’s ancestors. Men wore the wax masks of the dead and dressed in the ceremonial robes they had worn in life. They held aloft the garlands, crowns, and other military honors Sulla had received in his long, victorious career.
At last the honor guard approached, carrying the funeral bier. Sulla’s body lay upon a couch of ivory decorated with gold ornaments, draped with purple cloth and garlands of cypress. His wife Valeria and the children of his five marriages followed.
The procession appeared to be headed not toward the necropolis outside the Esquiline Gate, but in the opposite direction.
“Where are they taking him?” muttered Lucius.
“Didn’t you know?” said the beggar. “Sulla’s funeral pyre is out on the Field of Mars. His monument’s there as well. They’ve already put it up.”
“The Field of Mars? Only the kings were ever buried there!”
The beggar shrugged. “Even so, Sulla specified in his will that his monument should be on the Field of Mars.”
The last of the procession passed by. Spectators fell in behind. Lucius, grimly determined to see the burning of the corpse, joined the crush. The beggar did likewise, staying close beside him. Forever after, Lucius would remember the man’s stench whenever he thought of Sulla’s funeral day.
As the multitude assembled on the Field of Mars, storm clouds gathered. The sky grew so dark that the men in charge of the pyre nervously conferred. But as quickly as they gathered, the black clouds dispersed. A shaft of golden sunlight shone down on the bier atop the pyre.
“You know what they’ll say,” whispered the beggar, drawing close to Lucius. His smell had cleared a way for them to stand at the front of the crowd. “They’ll say his good luck followed Sulla even to his funeral pyre. Fortuna herself drove the rain away!”
Speeches were made. Sulla was praised as the savior of the Republic. Tales were recounted to demonstrate his virtue and genius. The words were like the buzzing of locusts in Lucius’s ears.
The pyre was lit. The flames reached higher and higher. Lucius was so close that the heat blasted his face and cinders swirled about him. The beggar pointed at the monument nearby, an imposing crypt the size of a small temple. He said something, but amid the crackle of flames Lucius could not hear. Lucius frowned and shook his head. The beggar spoke louder, almost shouting.
“What does it say? The inscription across the pediment of the temple? They say that Sulla composed his own epitaph.”
Waves of heated air obscured the view, but by squinting Lucius could make out the letters. He read aloud, “‘No friend ever did him a kindness, and no enemy ever did him a wrong, without being fully repaid.’”
The beggar cackled with laughter. Lucius stared at the man, feeling pity and revulsion. “Who are you?” he said.
“Me? Nobody. Everybody. One of Sulla’s enemies who received his full payment, I suppose. I was a soldier. Fought for Cinna, then for Marius—always against Sulla, though for no particular reason. And look at me now! Sulla paid me back in full. What about you, citizen? Dressed in your fancy clothes, looking spruce and sleek, with all your limbs intact; I suppose you were one of his friends. Did Sulla give you your just deserts?”
Lucius was carrying a small coin purse. He began to reach into it, then thought better and gave the whole thing to the beggar. Before the man could thank him, Lucius disappeared into the crowd. He made his way through the throng and back to the city.
The Forum was empty. His footsteps echoed as he hurried over the paving stones. Passing near the Rostra, he felt a sudden chill. He looked up and saw the gilded statue of Sulla in silhouette; the sun, behind the statue’s head, gave it a scintillating halo. Even in death, the dictator cast a cold shadow across his life.
74 B.C.
The winter of that year was unusually harsh. One storm after another dropped sleet and rain on the city. On many mornings the valleys brimmed with a cold, white mist, like bowls filled with milk, and the hills were glazed with frost, making the winding, paved streets that ran up and down the hillsides treacherous underfoot.
Lucius Pinarius contracted a cold early in the winter, and could not shake it off; the ailment moved from one part of his body to another, but would not depart. He ventured out seldom, and received few visitors. Only belatedly, from a talkative workman who came to repair a leak in his roof, did he learn the news that every gossip in the Forum already knew: Gaius Julius Caesar, while traveling in the Aegean, had been kidnapped by pirates.
Lucius had not seen Julia, or his son, for many months. His rare visits were too painful and awkward for all concerned. But hearing of her brother’s misfortune, he knew that Julia must be distraught, and he felt compelled to see her.
Coughing violently, Lucius put on a heavy woolen cloak. A single slave accompanied him through the dank, frosty streets to the far side of the Palatine, where Julia lived with her husband, Quintus Pedius.
The marriage had apparently worked out well for her. In its early days, however unhappy she might have been, the prudent thing had been to make the best of it, since there was no way of knowing how long Sulla would reign as dictator. Julia had adapted quickly to her new circumstances; like her brother, she was a survivor, thought Lucius bitterly. Lucius, too, had adapted, in his own fashion. Simply to keep from going mad, early on he had banished from his thoughts any notion that Julia might someday divorce Pedius and remarry him. After Sulla’s death, the notion occasionally entered his thoughts, especially when his loneliness was most acute. But the act of submitting to Sulla had robbed him of his dignity as a Roman; without dignity, he had neither the authority nor the will to take back what had been his. It was useless to blame the gods, or Gaius, or even Sulla. A man must endure his own fate.
A door slave admitted him to Pedius’s house. Looking surprised and not a little wary, Julia met him in a room off the garden where a brazier was blazing and shutters had been closed to keep out the cold.
The sight of her was like a knife in his heart. Even through the loose folds of her stola he could see that she was pregnant. She saw him staring at her belly, and lowered her eyes.
The phlegm rattled in his chest. He fought against the need to cough. “I came because I heard the news about your brother.”
Julia drew a sharp breath. “What have you heard?”
“That he was kidnapped by pirates.”
“And?”
“Only that.”
Julia wrinkled her brow. This was old news. He had alarmed her by making her think he knew something she did not, and now she was peeved at him.
“If there’s anything I can do…,” he said lamely.
“That’s kind of you, Lucius, but Quintus and I managed to raise the ransom. It was sent some time ago. All we can do now is wait.”
“I see.”
A faint smile lit Julia’s lips. “His captors must be illiterate. If they had read what Gaius says about them in his letters, they’d never have allowed him to send them.”
“His letters?”
“That’s how we found out about his situation. ‘Dear sister, I am held captive,’ he wrote—ever so matter-of-factly! ‘Could you be so kind as to raise a bit of ransom for me?’ Then he went on to write the most scathing insults about his captors, how uncouth they are, how stupid. To hear Gaius tell it, he’s lording it over them—ordering them about, demanding decent food and more comfortable sleeping quarters, even trying to teach them some manners. ‘One must use a tone of authority with such creatures, as one does with a dog.’ As if the whole experience is simply a learning exercise for him—the proper way to handle a pirate crew!” She lowered her eyes. “Of course, his bravado may be an attempt to reassure me and to keep up his own spirits. These men are thieves and murderers, after all. The things they do to people…the terrible stories one hears…”
Julia trembled and her voice broke. It was all Lucius could do not to rush to her and take her in his arms. He resisted the impulse because he had no right to do so, and because he could not bear it if she pushed him away.
“Gaius is a survivor,” said Lucius; like his sister, he thought. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.” He coughed into his sleeve.
“Lucius, you’re unwell.”
“It sounds worse than it is. I should go home now. I merely came to offer…” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I came.”
Julia gazed into the flames of the brazier. “Did you want to see…?”
“Probably it’s best if I don’t.”
“He’s growing up very fast. Only six, and able to read already! He knows about his uncle. He has bad dreams about pirates. He looks just like you.”
Lucius felt a great weight on his chest, as if a stone were crushing him. It had been a mistake to come. As he was turning to leave, a slave rushed into the room. The man clutched a scrap of parchment, tightly rolled and tied and sealed with wax. When Julia saw it, her eyes grew wide.
“Is it—?
“Yes, mistress. From your brother!”
Julia snatched the letter and unrolled it. She scanned the contents, then began to weep. Lucius braced himself, thinking it must be bad news. Then Julia threw back her head and laughed.
“He’s free! Gaius is alive and well and free! Oh, this is wonderful! Lucius, you must listen to this: ‘Dear sister, for forty days I was held captive against my will. Thanks to the ransom you sent, I was given my freedom. The experience was most disagreeable, but left me little the worse for wear; have no anxieties about my well-being. I cannot say the same about my captors. As soon as I was freed, I set about organizing a party to hunt down the pirates. They provided little sport; the simple-minded fools were eager to spend their ill-gotten gains and headed for the nearest port with a tavern and a brothel. We captured them easily, and recovered a considerable part of the ransom; I shall return as much as I can to you now, and the balance later. As for the pirates, we set up crosses on a hillside visible to all passing ships and crucified them. During my captivity, I warned them that I would see them come to a bad end, and so I did. I watched them die, one by one. By all means, spread this news to everyone in Roma. Between you and me, I am quite proud of how this all turned out. Justice was done and Roman dignity was upheld. The episode shall make a splendid campaign story when it comes time for me to begin the Course of Honor.’”
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