Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4)

by Steven Saylor

  Abroad, Mithridates was ravaging Rome’s eastern possessions, including Greece. The Senate voted to send Sulla to reclaim them, a duty which his previous service had earned and which should have fallen to him by right as consul. The command would be extraordinarily lucrative; there is nothing like a successful Eastern campaign to raise immense revenues through tributes, taxes, and outright looting. It would also give its commanding general immense power; in the old days Roman armies were loyal to the Senate, but now they follow the man who leads them. Sulpicius’s Anti-Senate decided that the command should go to Marius. Chaos erupted in the Forum. The Senate was pressured into transferring the command from Sulla to Marius, and Sulla barely escaped being murdered in the streets.

  Sulla fled Rome to take his appeal directly to the army. When the common soldiers heard what had happened, they pledged themselves to Sulla and stoned their staff officers (appointed by Marius) to death. Marius’s followers reacted in Rome by attacking members of the Sullan party and looting their property. In a panic, people changed from one side to the other, fleeing from Rome to Sulla’s camp or from the camp to Rome. The Senate capitulated to whatever Marius and Sulpicius demanded. Sulla marched on the capital.

  The unthinkable came to pass. Rome was invaded by Romans.

  On the night before, Sulla dreamed. Behind him stood Bellona, whose cult had been brought to Rome from the East, whose ancient temples Sulla himself had visited in Cappadocia. She placed thunderbolts in his hands. She named his enemies one by one, and as she named them they appeared through a mist like tiny figures seen from a hilltop. The goddess told Sulla to strike them. He cast the thunderbolts. His enemies were blasted asunder. He awoke, his Memoirs tell us, feeling invigorated and supremely confident.

  What kind of man has such a dream? Is he mad? Or a genius? Or simply a child of Rome blessed by Fortune, sent a reassuring message of success by the power that guides his destiny?

  Before dawn, as the army assembled, a lamb was sacrificed. By the smoky torchlight the soothsayer Postumius read the entrails. He rushed to Sulla and knelt, offering up his hands as if for shackles. He begged Sulla to keep him bound as a prisoner so that he might be summarily executed if his visions were false, so certain was he of Sulla’s triumph. So the legend tells us. There is something about a man like Sulla that makes savants and soothsayers clamour to grovel at his feet.

  Sulla attacked from the east with a force of 35,000. There are sections of the Esquiline Hill that still bear the blackened scars of his advance. The walls were breached. The unarmed populace resisted with a bombardment of tiles and rubble cast from rooftops. Sulla himself was the first to take a torch in hand and set fire to a building where the people had gathered to resist. Archers shot fire-arrows onto rooftops. Whole families were burned alive; others were left homeless and ruined. The flames made no distinction between the guilty and the innocent, friend and foe. All were consumed.

  Marius was driven back to the Temple of Tellus. Here his radical populism reached its apex: in return for their support, he offered freedom to the slaves of Rome. It says something for the prescience of the slaves or for the decline of Marius’s reputation that only three slaves came forward. Marius and his supporters fled the city and scattered. The tribune Sulpicius, master of the Anti-Senate, was betrayed by one of his own slaves and put to death. Sulla first rewarded the treacherous slave by granting him freedom, then punished him as a free man by having him hurled to his death from the Tarpeian Rock.

  My thoughts, having wandered their own way on the wings of Metrobius’s song, returned abruptly to the present. Echoing up from below us, Metrobius’s voice affected a childish singsong with an atrociously crude Greek accent:

  Sulla’s face is a mulberry; Sulla’s wife is a whore.

  Sulla’s face is red and purple; Sulla’s wife is a bore.

  Mottled and splotched with bumps that must itch—

  Is it Sulla’s face – or the breasts of his bitch?

  The crowd gasped. A few in the room tittered nervously. Chrysogonus suppressed his golden smile. Sulla’s face was a blank. Rufus looked disgusted. Hortensius had just put something into his mouth and was looking about the room, uncertain whether he should swallow. The ruined young poet looked nauseated – literally nauseated, pale and sweaty, as if something on the table had disagreed with him and he might vomit at any moment.

  The lyre fell silent and Metrobius froze for a long moment. The lyre struck a twanging note. Metrobius cocked his head. ‘Well,’ he said archly, ‘it may not be Sophocles, or even Aristophanes – but I like it!’

  The tension broke. The room erupted in laughter; even Rufus smiled. Hortensius finally swallowed and reached for his goblet. The young poet staggered up from his couch and rushed from the room, clutching his belly.

  The lyre player strummed and Metrobius took a deep breath. The song recommenced.

  Sulla resumed his term as consul. Marius was outlawed. His enemies exiled, the Senate pacified, and the populace dazed, Sulla set out for Greece to win glory and drive back Mithridates. Afterwards, critics complained that his sweeping eastern campaign was the most expensive military expedition in the history of Rome.

  For the Greeks the price was devastating. Always in the past the great Roman conquerors of Greece and Macedonia had paid homage to the local shrines and temples, endowing them with offerings of gold and silver – respecting, if not the present inhabitants, then at least the memories of Alexander and Pericles. Sulla treated the temples differently. He looted them. The statues at Epidaurus were stripped of their gilding. The sacred offerings at Olympia were melted for coin. Sulla wrote to the keepers of the Oracle at Delphi and requested their treasure, saying that in his hands it would be safer from the vagaries of war, and that if he did have occasion to spend it he would certainly replace it. Sulla’s envoy, Caphis, arrived at Delphi, entered the inner shrine, heard the music of an invisible lyre, and burst into tears. Caphis sent word to Sulla, begging him to reconsider. Sulla wrote back, telling him that the sound of the lyre was surely a sign, not of Apollo’s anger, but of approval. The portable treasures were carried away in sacks. The great silver urn was cut into pieces and carted off on a wagon. The Oracle fell silent. In a hundred generations the Greeks will not forget.

  The Greeks, especially the Athenians, had welcomed Mithridates, happy to cast off the Roman yoke. Sulla punished them. If the Greeks could create another Euripides, a poet of agony and terror, he might find a theme in Sulla’s devouring lust to vanquish Athens – except that in Sulla’s life story there is no hubris, only the never-ending caress of Fortune, as steady as the waves of the sea. The siege was bitter and relentless. The populace, driven to starvation, kept up their spirits by composing crude ditties slandering Sulla. The tyrant Aristion railed at the Romans from the city walls, hurling down insults against Sulla and his wife (the fourth, Metella), accompanied by a broad and complicated vocabulary of obscene gestures, many of which the Romans had never seen before but which were subsequently imported and are now fashionable among the street gangs and idle youth of the city. Many of these gestures have facetious names, mostly on the theme of Sulla raping Athena, to the chagrin of his wife.

  When the walls were scaled and the gates opened, the slaughter was appalling. It is said that the blood in the enclosed marketplace was literally ankle-deep. Once the fury had subsided, Sulla put a stop to the pillage, ascending to the Acropolis to say a few words of praise for the ancient Athenians, followed by his famous utterance. ‘I forgive the few for the sake of the many, the living for the sake of the dead,’ a quotation frequently cited as an example either of his profound wisdom or his very dry wit.

  Meanwhile, civil war simmered and bubbled in Rome as if her walls were the rim of a cauldron. The Italian allies grumbled over the slow dispensation of citizenships promised at the end of the Social War; the conservatives in the Senate grumbled that the privileges of citizenship were being disastrously diluted; the exiled Marius wandered to Africa and back, like U
lysses pursued by harpies. The anti-Sullan consul Cinna, another radical demagogue, welcomed Marius back to Rome and outlawed Sulla instead. Amid chaos and bloodshed Marius attained his seventh consulship only to die seventeen days later.

  Having driven Mithridates back to Pontus, Sulla summarily declared the Eastern campaign a total success and made his way back to Italy with all speed. Here the legends and Memoirs recount further encounters with fawning soothsayers and soaring dreams, but why repeat them? The goddess Bellona supplied fresh thunderbolts and Sulla dispensed them to his loyal generals, Pompey and Crassus foremost among them, who cast them all over Italy and Africa, turning Sulla’s enemies to ash. Fortune never ceased to smile for an instant. At Signia, Sulla was engaged by the army of Marius the son of Marius. Twenty thousand of Marius’s men were killed, eight thousand were taken prisoner; Sulla lost only twenty-three soldiers.

  The second siege of Rome was not so easy. Sulla and Crassus approached from the north, Pompey from the south. The left wing under Sulla was annihilated, and he himself barely missed being killed by a spear; he later attributed his salvation to the tiny golden image of Apollo he had stolen from Delphi, which he always carried into battle, often holding it to his lips and murmuring prayers and whispered adorations like a lover. Rumours of Sulla’s death spread on both sides, even infecting Pompey’s army with despair. Finally, after dark, word came to Sulla that the right wing under Crassus had destroyed the enemy.

  Once in Rome, Sulla had the disarmed remnants of the defending army, six thousand Samnites and Lucanians, rounded up and herded like cattle into the Circus Maximus. Meanwhile, he called a meeting of the Senate, and even as he began his address the slaughter in the Circus commenced. The din of the massacred was audible all over the city; the noise echoed in the Senate chamber like the wailing of ghosts. The senators were dumbfounded. Sulla continued to speak in a perfectly even tone of voice, as if nothing unusual were happening. The senators grew distracted and began to mill about and murmur among themselves, until Sulla stamped his foot and shouted at them to listen to what he was saying. ‘Ignore the noise from outside,’ he told them. ‘By my orders, some criminals are receiving correction.’

  By consent of the Senate, Sulla proclaimed himself dictator, a constitutional seizure of authority that no one else had dared to attempt for more than a hundred years. As dictator, Sulla destroyed all opposition and rewarded his faithful generals. He was granted immunity for all his past actions. He reordered the constitution to strip the encroaching power of the populist tribunes and the masses and to restore the privileges of the nobles. When his original, legal term of one year as dictator expired, the Senate obliged him with an unprecedented and constitutionally questionable extension, ‘to complete his vital work for the salvation of the state.’

  For a time Sulla ruled with an even hand, and the city breathed a sigh of relief, as if spring had arrived after a long, hard winter. But Sulla was not satisfied with his almost total triumph. Perhaps a soothsayer warned him of danger. Perhaps in a dream Bellona issued him more thunderbolts.

  The proscriptions began with the original List of Eighty. The next day a second list of more than two hundred names appeared. On the third day another list appeared, again with more than two hundred names.

  Sulla was as witty as ever. On the fourth day he made a public speech defending the killings. When he was asked if a fourth list was yet to come, he explained that at his age his memory had begun to fail. ‘So far we’ve posted the names of all the enemies of the state that I can remember. As more enemies occur to me, we’ll post more names.’ Eventually the lists numbered into the thousands.

  The son of an emancipated slave was accused of having hidden one of the original Eighty. The penalty for concealing the proscribed was death. On his way to the Tarpeian Rock the wretch passed Sulla’s retinue in the street and reminded him they had once lived in the same tenement. ‘Don’t you remember?’ the man said. ‘I lived upstairs and paid two thousand sesterces. You lived in the rooms under me and paid three thousand.’ From the grin on his face no one could tell whether the man was joking or not. For once Sulla did not seem amused; perhaps he was not in a mood to be reminded of his humble origins. ‘Then you’ll appreciate the Tarpeian Rock,’ he told the man. ‘The rent costs nothing and the view is unforgettable.’ And with that he passed on, deaf to the man’s pleas for mercy.

  Some wags insinuated that men were proscribed simply so that the state and friends of the state could obtain their property. ‘Did you hear,’ the joke ran, ‘So-and-So was killed by his big mansion on the Palatine, So-and-So by his gardens, and So-and-So by his new steam-bath installation.’ There was the tale of one Quintus Aurelius, who went down to the Forum and discovered his name on the lists. A passing friend asked him to dinner. ‘Impossible,’ said Quintus. ‘I haven’t the time. I’m being hunted down by my Alban estate.’ He rounded a corner and went no more than twenty paces before an assassin slit his throat.

  But the proscriptions finally ended. Pompey went off to Africa to annihilate the last of his master’s enemies. Crassus threw himself into real estate speculation. Young populists like Caesar fled to the ends of the earth. Sulla divorced his beloved Metella (whose breasts had been slandered by the Athenians) on the religious grounds that her fatal illness threatened to pollute his home, and the dictator found himself pursued by the beautiful young divorcee Valeria (yes, Rufus’s sister); at a gladiator show she snatched a loose thread from the great man’s toga to claim a bit of his good fortune, caught his eye, and became his bride. The doddering prestige of the nobility was shored up with cracked plaster and straw, and rumours began to circulate that at any moment the newlywed Sulla would lay down his dictatorship and call for unfettered consular elections.

  Down in Chrysogonus’s banquet hall, surrounded by spoils of the Social War, the civil war, and the proscriptions, Metrobius stood with his head held high and his hands clasped, drawing a deep breath. His song was nearing its end, having reviewed in witheringly satirical detail the highlights of its subject’s career. Even the humiliated poet, having emptied his belly of whatever ailed him and slunk back to his couch, had finally joined in the raucous laughter.

  Tiro turned towards me, shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand these people at all,’ he whispered. ‘What sort of party is this?’

  I had been wondering the same thing myself. ‘I think the rumours may be true. I think our esteemed Dictator and Saviour of the Republic may be contemplating his imminent retirement. That will mean solemn occasions and ceremonies, hymns of praise, retrospective orations, the official publication of his Memoirs. All very stiff and formal, respectable, Roman. But here among his own, Sulla would rather drink and make a joke of it. What a strange man he is! But wait, the song isn’t over.’

  Metrobius was batting his eyes, shaping his hands in a demure, maidenly gesture, satirizing a shy virgin. He opened his painted mouth to sing:

  They met, it is said, at a gladiatorial fest,

  Where the living left living must be the best.

  She plucked at his hem for a simple memento—

  Or was it to glance at Sulla’s pimiento?

  The laughter was deafening. Sulla himself leaned forward, pounded his open palm against the table, and almost fell from his couch. Chrysogonus smiled and looked smug, leaving no doubt about the line’s authorship. Hortensius playfully threw an asparagus spear in Metrobius’s direction; it flew over his head and struck the poet square on the forehead. Rufus drew away from Sorex, who was smiling and trying to whisper something in his ear. He did not look amused.

  Flesh was pierced that day; men writhed in the dust.

  Sulla drew his sword to prove it hadn’t gone to rust;

  And the lady agreed, yes, the lady declared—

  The song was interrupted by the clattering crash of an overturned table. Rufus was on his feet, his face quite red. Hortensius laid a restraining hand on his leg, but Rufus jerked away. ‘Valeria may be only your half sister, Hor
tensius, but she’s my flesh and blood,’ he snapped, ‘and I won’t listen to this filth. And she’s your wife!’ he said, coming to a sudden halt before the couch of honour and openly glaring at Sulla. ‘How can you stand for such insults?’

  The room fell silent. For a long moment Sulla didn’t move but remained as he was, leaning on one elbow with his legs outstretched. He stared into space and worked his jaw back and forth, as if a tooth bothered him. Finally he swung his legs to the floor and slowly sat upright, staring up at Rufus with a look on his face that was at once sardonic, rueful, and amused.

  ‘You are a very proud young man,’ he said. ‘Very proud and very beautiful, like your sister.’ He reached for his wine and took a sip. ‘But unlike Valeria, you seem to lack a sense of humour. And if Hortensius is your half brother, perhaps that explains why you have only half his good sense, not to mention good manners.’ He sipped more wine and sighed. ‘When I was your age, many things about the world displeased me. Instead of complaining, I set about changing the world, and I did. If a song offends you, don’t throw a tantrum. Write a better one.’

  Rufus stared back at him, holding his arms stiffly at his sides, clenching his fists. I imagined all the insults running through his head and whispered a silent prayer to the gods that he would keep his mouth shut. He opened his mouth and seemed about to speak, then looked angrily about the room and stalked out.

  Sulla settled back on his couch, looking rather disappointed to have had the last word. There was an awkward silence, broken by a quip from the would-be poet: ‘There’s a young man who’s stunted his career!’ It was an abysmally stupid remark, coming from a nobody and aimed at a young Messalla and brother-in-law of the dictator. The silence became even more awkward, broken only by scattered groans and a suppressed cough from Hortensius.