The First Man in Rome by Colleen McCullough
He received Caesar looking every inch the patrician Roman, immaculate in white, the narrow knight’s stripe adorning the right shoulder of his tunic, his magnificent head of hair cut and combed into a manly yet becoming style.
“I apologize for having to drag you here yet again, Gaius Julius,” said Sulla, and handed Caesar a small roll of paper. “This has just arrived from Circei, and I thought you ought to see it at once.”
Without a change of expression Caesar read it very slowly, his lips moving, but the sound of the words he said over to himself very quiet. He was weighing, Sulla knew, each and every word as he separated it from the uninterrupted flow of letters on the paper. Done, he laid the sheet down.
“It is the third death,” said Caesar, and actually seemed happy about that fact. “Your household is sadly diminished, Lucius Cornelius. Please accept my condolences.”
“I presumed that you had made Clitumna’s will for her,” Sulla said, standing very straight, “otherwise I assure you that I would not have bothered you.”
“Yes, I have made several wills for her, the last one just after Nicopolis died.” His handsome face, his direct blue eyes, everything about Caesar was carefully, legally noncommittal. “I would like you to tell me, Lucius Cornelius, what exactly you felt for your stepmother.’’
Here it was, the frailest eggshell yet. He must tread as surely and delicately as a cat on a windowsill strewn with broken shards a full twelve floors above the pavement. “I remember saying something to you before, Gaius Julius,” he said, “but I’m glad to have the opportunity to speak at greater length about her. She was a very silly and stupid and vulgar woman, but as it happens, I was fond of her. My father”—and Sulla’s face twisted—”was an incurable drunkard. The only life I ever remember with him—and for some years with my older sister too, until she married and escaped—was a nightmare. We were not impoverished gentry, Gaius Julius. We didn’t live in a style in any way reminiscent of our origins. We were so poor we had no slave, not one. If it hadn’t been for the charity of an old marketplace teacher, I, a patrician of the gens Cornelius, would not even have learned to read and write. I have never done my basic military training on the Campus Martius, nor learned to ride a horse, nor been the pupil of some advocate in the law courts. Of soldiering, of rhetoric, of public life, I know nothing. Such did my father do to me. And so—I was fond of her. She married my father, and she took him and me to live with her, and who knows? Perhaps, had my father and I gone on living in the Subura, I would one day have gone quite mad, and murdered him, and offended the gods beyond mercy. As it was, until he died she took the brunt of him, and I was liberated. Yes, I was fond of her.”
“She was fond of you too, Lucius Cornelius,” said Caesar. “Her will is simple and straightforward. It leaves everything she had to you.”
Easy, easy! Not too much joy, but not too much grief either! The man he was facing was very intelligent and must have great experience of men.
“Did she leave me enough to enter the Senate?’’ he asked, looking into Caesar’s eyes.
“More than enough.”
Sulla visibly sagged. “I—can’t—believe it!” he said. “Are you sure? I know she had this house and the villa at Circei, but I didn’t think there was much else.”
“On the contrary, she was an extremely wealthy woman—money invested, stocks and interests in all kinds of companies, as well as in a dozen merchant ships. I advise you to divest yourself of the ships and the company shares, and use the funds they realize to buy property. You’ll need to have your affairs in exquisite order to satisfy the censors.”
“It’s a dream!” said Sulla.
“I can understand that you must find it so, Lucius Cornelius. But rest assured, it’s all real enough.” Caesar sounded tranquil, not repelled by Sulla’s reaction, nor suspicious of feigned grief his common sense would have told him a Lucius Cornelius Sulla could never feel for a Clitumna, no matter how kind to his father she might have been.
“She might have gone on for years and years,” said Sulla, voice wondering. “Mine is a happy fate after all, Gaius Julius. I never thought to be able to say that. I shall miss her. But I hope that in the years to come, the world will say that the greatest contribution she made to it was in her dying. For I intend to be an ornament to my class and to the Senate.” Did that sound all right? Did it imply what he intended it to imply?
“I agree, Lucius Cornelius, that it would make her happy to think you used her bequest fruitfully,” said Caesar, taking what Sulla said exactly the right way. “And I trust there will be no more wild parties? No more dubious friends?”
“When a man can espouse the life his birth entitles him to, Gaius Julius, there is no need for wild parties or dubious friends.” Sulla sighed. “They were a way of passing the time. I daresay that must seem inexplicable to you. But the life I have lived for over thirty years has hung on my neck like a huge millstone.”
“Of course it has,” said Caesar.
A horrifying thought occurred to Sulla. “But there are no censors! What can I do?”
“Well, though there is no need to elect more until four more years have elapsed, one of the conditions Marcus Scaurus put upon his voluntary resignation—such as it was—was that new censors be elected next April. You will just have to contain yourself until then,” Caesar said comfortably.
Sulla girded himself, drew a deep breath. “Gaius Julius, I have one further request to make of you,” he said.
The blue eyes held an expression Sulla found impossible to fathom, as if Caesar knew what was coming—yet how could that be, when the idea had just popped into his mind? The most brilliant idea yet, the luckiest. For if Caesar consented, Sulla’s application to the censors would have far greater weight than mere money, far greater effect than the claim of birth, marred as it was by the kind of life he had led.
“What request is that, Lucius Cornelius?” asked Caesar.
“That you consider me as a husband for your daughter Julilla,” he said.
“Even after she injured you so?”
“I—love her,” said Sulla, and believed he meant it.
“At the moment Julilla is nowhere near well enough to contemplate marriage,” said Caesar, “but I will take note of your request, Lucius Cornelius.” He smiled. “Perhaps you deserve each other, after so much trouble.”
“She gave me a grass crown,” said Sulla. “And do you know, Gaius Julius, it was only after that my luck turned?”
“I believe you.” Rising, he prepared to go. “Nonetheless, for the moment we will say nothing to anyone of your interest in marrying Julilla. Most particularly, I charge you to stay away from her. However you feel about her, she is still trying to find her way out of her predicament, and I want no easy solution presented to her.”
Sulla accompanied Caesar to the door, and there held out his hand, smiling with his lips closed; for no one knew the effect of those overlong and oversharp canines better than their owner. Not for Gaius Julius Caesar any nasty chilling grins. No, Caesar was to be treasured and courted. Ignorant of the proposition Caesar had once put to Gaius Marius about a daughter, Sulla had come to the same conclusion. What better way to endear himself to the censors—and the electorate—than to have a Julia as his wife? Especially when there was one so close to hand she had nearly died for him.
“Iamus!” Sulla called when he had shut the door.
“Lucius Cornelius?”
“Don’t bother with dinner. Put the house into mourning for the lady Clitumna, and see to the return of all her servants from Circei. I’m leaving at once to see to her funeral.”
And, thought Sulla, packing quickly, I shall take young Metrobius with me, and say goodbye. Goodbye to every last trace of the old life, goodbye to Clitumna. None of it will I miss save Metrobius. And him I will miss. Badly.
THE
THIRD YEAR
108 B.C.
IN THE CONSULSHIP OF
SERVIUS SULPICIUS GALBA
QUINTUS HORTENSIUS
1
With the coming of the winter rains, the war—such as it had been so far—against Numidia ground to a cheerless halt, neither side able to deploy its troops. Gaius Marius received his letter from his father-in-law, Caesar, and thought about what it contained, and wondered if the consul Quintus Caecilius Metellus Piggle-wiggle knew that he would become proconsul when the New Year arrived, his command successfully prorogued, a future triumph assured. Nor did anyone in the governor’s headquarters at Utica mention the defeat of Marcus Junius Silanus by the Germans, or the loss of all those troops.
Which didn’t mean, thought Marius resentfully, that these items were not known to Metellus; only that, as usual, his senior legate Gaius Marius would be the last man to be told. Poor Rutilius Rufus had been given the job of supervising the winter border garrisons, which put him out of touch with any developments short of the renewal of war; and Gaius Marius, recalled to duty in Utica, found himself the subordinate of Metellus Piggle-wiggle’s son! That young man, all of twenty years old and a cadet in his father’s personal train, enjoyed the task of commanding Utica’s garrison and defenses, so that in any matter to do with Utica’s military dispositions, Marius had to defer to the insufferably arrogant Piglet, as he soon came to be called— and not by Marius alone. Utica as a fortress aside, Marius’s duties involved doing all the chores the governor didn’t want to do—duties more suited to a quaestor than a senior legate. Feelings in consequence were running high, and Marius’s self-control was rapidly eroding, especially when Metellus Piglet amused himself at Marius’s expense, something he liked to do now that his father had indicated it amused him too. The near defeat on the river Muthul had provoked both Rutilius Rufus and Marius into angry criticism of the general, and led Marius to tell him that the best way to win the war against Numidia was to capture Jugurtha himself. “How can I do that?” Metellus had asked, sufficiently chastened by his first battle to listen. “By subterfuge,” Rutilius Rufus had said. “What kind of subterfuge?” “That,” said Gaius Marius in conclusion, “you will have to work out for yourself, Quintus Caecilius.”
But now that everyone was safely back in Africa Province enduring the boredom of wet days and routine tasks, Metellus Piggle-wiggle kept his own counsel. Until, that is, he made contact with a Numidian nobleman named Nabdalsa, and was obliged to call Marius into his interview with the man.
“Why?” asked Marius bluntly. “Can’t do your own dirty work, Quintus Caecilius?”
“Believe me, Gaius Marius, if Publius Rutilius were here, I wouldn’t be using you!” snapped Metellus. “But you know Jugurtha where I don’t, and presumably that means you know a little more than I do about how Numidian minds work! All I want you to do is sit and watch this Nabdalsa, and tell me afterward what you think.”
“I’m surprised you trust me enough to think I’ll give you an honest opinion,” said Marius.
Metellus raised his brows, genuinely taken aback. “You are here to fight against Numidia, Gaius Marius, why shouldn’t you give me an honest opinion?”
“Then bring the fellow in, Quintus Caecilius, and I’ll do my best to oblige.”
Marius knew of Nabdalsa, though he had never met him; he was an adherent of the legitimate claimant to the Numidian throne, Prince Gauda, who was at present living in quasi-regal state not far from Utica, in the flourishing township which had grown up on the site of Old Carthage. Thus Nabdalsa had come from Prince Gauda in Old Carthage, and was received by Metellus in frosty audience.
Metellus explained himself; the best and quickest way to solve the Numidian question and put Prince Gauda on the throne was to effect the capture of Jugurtha himself. Did Prince Gauda—or Nabdalsa—have any idea how the capture of Jugurtha might be effected?
“Through Bomilcar, dominus, definitely,” said Nabdalsa.
Metellus stared. “Bomilcar? But he’s Jugurtha’s half brother, his loyalest baron!”
“At the moment relations between them are rather strained,” said Nabdalsa.
“Why?” asked Metellus.
“It’s a question of the succession, dominus. Bomilcar wants to be designated regent in the event that anything should happen to Jugurtha, but Jugurtha refuses to consider it.”
“Regent, not heir?”
“Bomilcar knows he could never be heir, dominus. Jugurtha has two sons. However, they are very young.”
Frowning, Metellus tried to plumb the thought processes of alien minds. “Why is Jugurtha opposed? I should have thought that Bomilcar would represent an ideal choice.”
“It is the bloodline, dominus,” said Nabdalsa. “Baron Bomilcar is not descended from King Masinissa, so does not belong to the royal house.”
“I see.” Metellus straightened. “Very well, then, see what you can do to persuade Bomilcar that he ought to ally himself with Rome.” He turned to Marius. “How amazing! One would have thought that a man not noble enough to claim the throne would be the ideal choice for a regent.”
“In our kind of society, yes,” said Marius. “In Jugurtha’s it’s an invitation to murder of his sons. For how else could Bomilcar ascend the throne than by killing Jugurtha’s heirs and founding a new dynasty?”
Metellus turned back to Nabdalsa. “I thank you, Baron Nabdalsa. You may go.”
But Nabdalsa was not ready to go. “Dominus, I crave a small favor,” he said.
“What?” asked Metellus, none too pleased.
“Prince Gauda is anxious to meet you, and wonders why he has not yet been offered the opportunity. Your year as governor of Africa Province is almost over, yet still Prince Gauda waits for an invitation to meet you.”
“If he wants to meet me, what’s to stop him?” asked the governor blankly.
“He cannot just present himself, Quintus Caecilius,” said Marius. “You must extend a formal invitation.”
“Oh! Well, if that’s all there is to it, an invitation will be extended,” said Metellus, hiding his smile.
And, the invitation duly extended the very next day, so that Nabdalsa could bear it back personally to Old Carthage, Prince Gauda came to call on the governor.
It was not a happy meeting; two more different men than Gauda and Metellus scarcely lived. Weak and sickly and not very bright, Gauda behaved in the manner he considered proper, and Metellus considered atrociously high-handed. For, having learned that an invitation must be extended before the royal guest in Old Carthage could come calling, Metellus assumed his visitor would be humble, even obsequious. Far from it. Gauda started proceedings off by flying into a temper when Metellus didn’t rise to greet him, and ended the audience not many moments later by stalking out of the governor’s presence.
“I am royalty]” Gauda bleated to Nabdalsa afterward.
“Everyone knows that, your Highness,” soothed Nabdalsa. “However, the Romans are very odd about royalty. They regard themselves as superior to it because they deposed their kings many hundreds of years ago, and have chosen ever since to rule themselves without benefit of kings.”
“I don’t care if they worship shit!” said Gauda, his lacerated feelings still smarting. “I am my father’s legitimate son, where Jugurtha is his bastard! And when I appear among these Romans, they should rise to greet me, they should bow down before me, they should give me a throne to sit on, and they should cull their soldiers for the hundred finest specimens and give them to me as a bodyguard!”
“True, true,” said Nabdalsa. “I will see Gaius Marius. Perhaps Gaius Marius will be able to bring Quintus Caecilius to his senses.”
Everyone Numidian knew about Gaius Marius and Publius Rutilius Rufus, for Jugurtha had spread their fame in the days when he had first returned from Numantia, and had seen both of them frequently during his recent visit to Rome.
“Then see Gaius Marius,” said Gauda, and retired in a monumental huff back to Old Carthage, there to brood upon the wrongs done him by Metellus in Rome’s name, while Nabdalsa unobtrusively sought a
“I’ll do what I can, Baron,” said Marius, sighing.
“I would appreciate it, Gaius Marius,” said Nabdalsa with feeling.
Marius grinned. “Your royal master taking it out on you, is he?”
Nabdalsa’s answer was a speaking look.
“The trouble is, my friend, that Quintus Caecilius considers himself infinitely better born than any Numidian prince. I very much doubt that anyone, especially I, could convince him to change his tune. But I’ll try, because I want you free to seek out Bomilcar. That’s a lot more important than squabbles between governors and princes,” said Marius.
“The Syrian prophetess says that the family Caecilius Metellus is riding for a fall,” said Nabdalsa thoughtfully.
“Syrian prophetess?”
“A woman called Martha,” said the Numidian. “Prince Gauda found her in Old Carthage, where it seems she was abandoned some years ago by a sea captain who believed she had successfully put a curse upon his ship. At first only the humble consulted her, but now her fame is very large, and Prince Gauda has taken her into his court. She has prophesied that Prince Gauda will indeed become King of Numidia, after the fall of Jugurtha. Though that fall, she says, will not be yet.”
“And what about the family Caecilius Metellus?”
“She says the whole family Caecilius Metellus is past the zenith of its power, and will grow less in number and less in wealth, surpassed by — among others — you yourself, dominus.”
“I want to see this Syrian prophetess,” said Marius.
“It can be arranged. But you must come to Old Carthage, for she will not leave Prince Gauda’s house,” said Nabdalsa.
An audience with Martha the Syrian prophetess involved an audience with Prince Gauda first; resignedly Marius listened to the litany of complaints about Metellus, and made promises he hadn’t the faintest idea how he was going to keep.
“Rest assured, your Highness, that when I am in a position to do so, I will make sure you are treated with all the respect and deference to which your birth entitles you,” he said, bowing as low as even Gauda could have wished.