The Grass Crown (83 page)

Sulla arrived in Rome early in December, having no idea when the elections would be held; after the death of Asellio Rome had no urban praetor, and people were saying that the sole consul, Pompey Strabo, would come when he felt like coming, not a moment before. Under normal circumstances this would have driven Sulla to despair. But there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind who was going to be the next senior consul. Sulla had attained true fame overnight. Men he didn’t know greeted him like a brother, women smiled and issued invitations out of the corners of their eyes, the rabble cheered him—and he had been elected an augur in absentia to replace the dead Asellio. All of Rome firmly believed that he, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, had won the war against the Italians. Not Gaius Marius. Not Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo. Sulla. Sulla, Sulla!

The Senate had never got around to formally appointing him commander-in-chief of the southern theater after Cato the Consul died; everything he had done, he had done as the legate of a dead man. However, he would shortly be the new senior consul—and then the Senate would have to give him whatever command he asked for. The embarrassment of certain senatorial leaders like Lucius Marcius Philippus at this legatal oversight quite amused Sulla when he met them. Clearly they had considered him a lightweight, incapable of performing miracles. Now he was everybody’s hero.

One of the first visits he paid after returning to Rome was to Gaius Marius, whom he found so much improved he was astonished. With the old man was the eleven-year-old Gaius Julius Caesar Junior, now very nearly Sulla’s height, though not yet pronouncedly pubescent. Just as striking, just as intelligent, and more of everything else than the boy had been during those past visits Sulla had paid Aurelia. He had been looking after Marius for a year, and he had listened with the keen ears of a wild creature to every word the Master had said. Heard it all, forgotten nothing.

Sulla learned from Marius of the near-downfall of Young Marius, still on duty with Cinna and Comutus against the Marsi, a quieter and more responsible Young Marius than of yore. Sulla also learned of the near-fall of Young Caesar, who sat as the story was told smiling gently and looking into nothing. The presence of Lucius Decumius as a part of the episode had alerted Sulla immediately—and surprised him. Not like Gaius Marius! What was the world coming to when Gaius Marius stooped to hiring a professional assassin? So patently, blatantly accidental had the death of Publius Claudius Pulcher been that Sulla knew it was no accident. Only how had the deed been done? And how did Young Caesar fit into it? Was it really possible that this—this child had gambled his own life to push Publius Claudius Pulcher over a cliff? No! Not even a Sulla had so much confidence when it came to murder.

Bending his unsettling gaze on the boy while Marius prattled on (clearly he believed the intervention of Lucius Decumius had not been necessary), Sulla concentrated upon putting fear into Young Caesar. But the boy, feeling those sunless rays, simply looked up and across at Sulla, no trace of fear in his eyes. Not even faint apprehension. Nor was there a smile; Young Caesar stared at Sulla with an acute and sober interest. He knows me for what I am! said Sulla to himself—but, Young Caesar, I know you for what you are too! And may the Great God preserve Rome from both of us.

A generous man, Marius experienced nothing but joy at Sulla’s success. Even the winning of the Grass Crown—the only military decoration which had escaped Marius’s net—was applauded without resentment or envy.

“What have you to say now about generalship of the learned variety?” asked Sulla provocatively.

“I say, Lucius Cornelius, that I was wrong. Oh, not about learned generalship! No, I was wrong to think you don’t have it in your bones. You do, you do. To send Gaius Cosconius by water to Apulia was inspired, and your pincer action was handled in a way no man—however superbly tutored!—could have, were he not a born general from the inside of his very marrow.”

An answer which should have made Lucius Cornelius Sulla absolutely happy and completely vindicated. Yet it didn’t. For Sulla understood that Marius still considered himself the better general, was convinced he could have subdued southern Italy faster and better. What do I have to do to make this stubborn old donkey see that he’s met his match? cried Sulla within himself, betraying his thoughts in no external way. And felt his hackles stir, and looked at Young Caesar, and read in his eyes the knowledge of that unvoiced question.

“What do you think, Young Caesar?” asked Sulla.

“I am consumed with admiration, Lucius Cornelius.”

“A soft answer.”

“An honest one.”

“Come on, young man, I’ll take you home.”

They walked at first in silence, Sulla wearing his stark white candidate’s toga, the boy his purple-bordered child’s toga, with his bulla-amulet to ward off evil on a thong about his neck. And at first Sulla thought all the smiles and nods were for himself, so famous had he become, until it was borne upon him that a good many of them were actually aimed at the boy.

“How does everyone know you, Young Caesar?”

“Only reflected glory, Lucius Cornelius. I go everywhere with Gaius Marius, you see.”

“Not at all for yourself?”

“This close to the Forum I am simply Gaius Marius’s boy. Once we enter the Subura, I’m known for myself.”

“Is your father at home?”

“No, he’s still with Publius Sulpicius and Gaius Baebius before Asculum Picentum,” said the boy.

“Then he’ll be home very soon. That army’s marched.”

“I suppose he will.”

“Not looking forward to seeing your father?”

“Yes, of course I am,” said Young Caesar easily.

“Do you remember your cousin—my son?”

The boy’s face lit up; now the enthusiasm was genuine. “How could I ever forget him? He was so nice! When he died I wrote him a poem.”

“What did it say? Can you recite it to me?”

Young Caesar shook his head. “I wasn’t very good in those days, so I won’t recite it if you don’t mind. One day I’ll write him a better one and then I’ll give you a copy for yourself.”

How stupid, to be led into reopening the wound because he was finding it awkward to make conversation with an eleven-year-old boy! Sulla fell silent, fighting tears.

As usual Aurelia was busy at her desk, but she came the moment Eutychus told her who had brought her son home. When they settled in the reception room Young Caesar remained with them, watching his mother closely. Now what gnat is flying round in his mind? wondered Sulla, irked because the boy’s presence prevented his quizzing Aurelia about the things he wanted to. Luckily she perceived his irritation and soon dismissed her son, who went with reluctance.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“I suspect Gaius Marius has said something or other to give Gaius Julius an erroneous idea about my friendship with you, Lucius Cornelius,” Aurelia said calmly.

“Ye gods!—the old villain! How dare he!”

The beautiful Aurelia laughed merrily. “Oh, I’ve grown past letting things like that worry me,” she said. “I know for a fact that when my uncle Publius Rutilius wrote to Gaius Marius in Asia Minor with the news that his niece had just been divorced by her husband after producing a red-haired son, Julia and Gaius Marius jumped to the conclusion that the niece was me—and the baby yours.”

Now it was Sulla’s turn to laugh. “Do they know so little about you? Your defenses are harder to break down than Nola’s.”

“True. Not that you haven’t tried.”

“I’m a man, built like any other.”

“I disagree. You should have hay tied to that horn!”

Listening from his secret hiding place above the study’s false ceiling, Young Caesar was conscious of an enormous relief—his mother was a virtuous woman after all. But then that emotion was chased out of his mind by another, much harder to deal with—why did she never show this side of herself to him! There she sat—laughing—relaxed—engaged in a kind of banter he was old enough to label as adultly worldly. Liking that repellent man! Saying things to him that indicated a very old and enduring friendship. Sulla’s lover she might not be, but there was an intimacy between them that Young Caesar knew she did not share with her husband. His father. Dashing his tears away impatiently, he settled stealthily to lie full length and disciplined his mind to the detachment he could summon these days when he tried very hard. Forget she is your mother, Gaius Julius Caesar Junior! Forget how much you detest her friend Sulla! Listen to them and learn.

“You will be consul very soon,” she was saying.

“At fifty-two. Older than Gaius Marius was.”

“And a grandfather! Have you seen the baby yet?”

“Oh, Aurelia, please! Sooner or later I suppose I’ll have to go around to Quintus Pompeius’s house with Aelia on my arm—and have dinner—and chuck the child under the chin. But why should I care enough about the birth of a daughter to a daughter to want to rush round and see the sprog at once?”

“Little Pompeia is absolutely beautiful.”

“Then may she wreak as much havoc as Helen of Troy!”

“Don’t say that! I’ve always thought poor Helen led a most unhappy life. A chattel. A bed-toy,” said Aurelia strongly.

“Women are chattels,” said Sulla, smiling.

“I am not! I have my own property and my own activities.”

Sulla’s tone changed. “The siege of Asculum Picentum is no more. Gaius Julius will be home any day. And then what happens to all this brave talk?”

“Don’t, Lucius Cornelius! Though I love him dearly, I dread his walking through the door. He will find fault with everything from the children to my role as landlady, and I will try desperately to please him until he issues some order I cannot countenance!”

“At which point, my poor Aurelia, you will tell him he’s wrong, and the unpleasantness will start,” said Sulla tenderly.

“Would you put up with me?” she demanded fiercely.

“Not if you were the last woman left alive, Aurelia.”

“Whereas Gaius Julius does put up with me.”

“Huh! What a world!”

“Oh, stop being flippant!” she snapped.

“Then I’ll change the subject,” said Sulla, and leaned back on both hands. “How is Scaurus’s widow?”

The purple eyes glistened. “Ecastor! Still interested?”

“Definitely.”

“I believe she’s under the guardianship of a relatively young man—Livius Drusus’s brother, Mamercus Aemilius Lepidus Livianus.”

“I know him. He assists Quintus Lutatius in Capua, but he fought with Titus Didius at Herculaneum and he went to Lucania with the Gabinii. A sturdy sort of fellow—the kind who is thought the salt of the earth by everybody.” He sat up, looking suddenly as alert as a cat sighting prey. “Is that how the wind lies? Is she going to marry Lepidus Livianus?”

Aurelia laughed. “I doubt it! He’s married to a rather nasty woman who keeps her foot on him all the time. The Claudia who is a sister of Appius Claudius Pulcher—you know, his wife made Lucius Julius clean out the temple of Juno Sospita in his toga. She died in childbirth two months later.”

“She’s my Dalmatica’s cousin—the dead Balearica, I mean,” said Sulla with a grin.

“Everyone’s her cousin,” said Aurelia.

Sulla looked brisk. “Do you think my Dalmatica would be interested in me these days?”

Aurelia shook her head. “I have no idea! That is an honest answer, Lucius Cornelius. I have no contact with my woman peers whatsoever beyond my immediate family.”

“Then perhaps you should cultivate her acquaintance when your husband comes home. You’ll definitely have more spare time,” said Sulla slyly.

“Enough, Lucius Cornelius! You can go home for that.”

They walked to the door together. As soon as their forms had disappeared from the scope of Young Caesar’s spyhole, he came down from the ceiling and was gone.

“Will you cultivate Dalmatica for me?” Sulla asked as his hostess held open the front door.

“No, I will not,” said Aurelia. “If you’re so interested, you cultivate her. Though I can tell you that a divorce from Aelia will make you a very unpopular man.”

“I’ve been unpopular before. Vale.”

The tribal elections were held without the presence of the consul after the Senate conferred the task of scrutineer upon Metellus Pius the Piglet, who was a praetor and had come to Rome with Sulla. That the tribunes of the plebs were going to be a conservative lot was obvious when none other than Publius Sulpicius Rufus came in first and Publius Antistius not far behind him. Sulpicius had secured his release from Pompey Strabo; having made an excellent reputation in the field as a commander against the Picentes, Sulpicius now wished to make a political reputation. Rhetorical and forensic reputations he already possessed, having had a brilliant Forum career as a youth. Known as far and away the most promising orator among the younger men, like the dead Crassus Orator he affected the Asianic style, and was as gracefully calculated in his gestures as he was golden of voice, language, and rhetorical devices. His most famous case had been his prosecution of Gaius Norbanus for illegally convicting Caepio the Consul of Gold of Tolosa fame; that he had lost had not harmed his reputation in the least. A great friend of Marcus Livius Drusus’s—though he did not support enfranchisement for the Italians—he had since Drusus’s death drawn close to Quintus Pompeius Rufus, Sulla’s running mate in the coming consular elections. That he was now the President of the College of Tribunes of the Plebs did not bode well for tribunician antics of demagogue kind. And, in fact, it looked as if not one of the ten who were elected was of the demagogue kind, nor was the election of the college followed by a spate of controversial new legislation. More promising was the installation of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer as a plebeian aedile; very rich, he was rumored to be planning wonderful games for the war-weary city.

With the Piglet presiding again, the Centuries met on the Campus Martius to hear the consular and the praetorian candidates declare themselves. When Sulla and his colleague Quintus Pompeius Rufus announced a joint candidacy, the cheers were deafening. But when Gaius Julius Caesar Strabo Vopiscus Sesquiculus announced his intention to contest the consular elections, there was a stunned silence.