The First Man in Rome by Colleen McCullough
Besides which, he knew enough about his emotional state to understand that Julilla was very precious to him, and not merely because she symbolized his luck, though in his thoughts he classified his feelings for her around that luck. Simply, Sulla was incapable of defining his feelings for any human being as love. Love to Sulla was something other, lesser people felt. As defined by these other, lesser people, it seemed a very odd business, filled with illusions and delusions, at times noble to the point of imbecility and at other times base to the point of amorality. That Sulla could not recognize it in himself was due to his conviction that love negated common sense, self-preservation, enlightenment of the mind. In the years to come he did not ever see that his patience and forbearance in the matter of his flighty, labile wife were all the evidence of love he actually needed. Instead, he put the patience and forbearance down as virtues intrinsic to his own character, and so failed to understand himself or love, and so failed to grow.
A typical Julius Caesar wedding, it was more dignified by far than it was bawdy, though the weddings Sulla had attended were bawdier by far than they were dignified, so he endured the business rather than enjoyed it. However, when the time came there were no drunken guests outside his bedroom door, no wasting of his time having to forcibly eject them from his house. When the short journey from one front door to the next was over, and he picked Julilla up—how airy she felt, how ephemeral!—to carry her over the threshold, the guests who had accompanied them melted away.
As immature virgins had never formed a part of his life, Sulla experienced no misgivings about how events ought to go, and so saved himself a lot of unnecessary worry. For whatever the clinical status of her hymen, Julilla was as ripe, as easy to peel, as a peach caught dropping of its own volition from the tree. She watched him shed his wedding tunic and pull off the wreath of flowers on his head, as fascinated as she was excited. And pulled off her own layers upon layers without being asked, cream and flame and saffron bridal layers, the seven-tiered tiara of wool upon her head, all the special knots and girdles.
They gazed at each other then in complete satisfaction, Sulla beautifully put together, Julilla too thin, yet retaining a willowy grace of line which did much to soften what in someone else would have been angular and ugly. And it was she who moved to him, put her hands on his shoulders and with exquisitely natural and spontaneous voluptuousness inched her body against his, sighing in delight as his arms slid round her and began to stroke her back in long, hard sweeps of both hands.
He adored her lightness, the acrobatic suppleness with which she responded as he lifted her high above his head, let her twine herself about him. Nothing he did alarmed or offended her, and everything he did to her which she could in reciprocation do to him, she did. Teaching her to kiss took seconds; and yet through all their years together, she never stopped learning how to kiss. A wonderful, beautiful, ardent woman, anxious to please him, but greedy for him to please her. All his. Only his. And which of them that night could ever imagine that things might change, be less perfect, less wanted, less welcome?
“If you ever so much as look at anyone else, I’ll kill you,” he said as they lay on his bed, resting between their bouts of activity.
“1 believe you,” she said, remembering her father’s bitter lesson on the rights of the paterfamilias; for now she had moved out from under her father’s authority, replaced his with Sulla’s. A patrician, she was not and never could be her own mistress. The likes of Nicopolis and Clitumna were infinitely better off.
There was very little difference in their heights, for Julilla was quite tall for a woman, and Sulla almost exactly average for a man. So her legs were somewhat longer than his, and she could twist them through his knees, marveling at the whiteness of his skin compared to the deep gold of hers.
“You make me look like a Syrian,” she said, holding her arm along his, both in the air so she could see the contrast, increased by the lamplight.
“I’m not normal,” he said abruptly.
“That’s good,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him.
After which it was his turn to study her, the contrast and slenderness of her, scarcely escaping boyishness. With one hand he flipped her over quickly, pushed her face into the pillow and studied the lines of back and buttocks and thighs. Lovely.
“You’re as beautiful as a boy,” he said.
She tried to bounce up indignantly, was held where she lay. “I like that! Don’t make it sound as if you prefer boys to girls, Lucius Cornelius!” It was said in all innocence, amid giggles muffled by the soft pillow beneath her mouth.
“Well, until I met you, I think I did,” he said.
“Fool!” she laughed, taking his remark as a joke, then breaking free of him and clambering on top of him to straddle his chest and kneel on his arms. “For saying that, you can take a very close look at my little piggle-wiggle and tell me if it’s anything like a hard old spear!”
“Only a look?” he asked, pulling her up round his neck.
“A boy!” The idea still amused her. “You are a fool, Lucius Cornelius!” And then she forgot all about it in the delirious discovery of fresh pleasures.
*
The Assembly of the People duly elected Sulla a quaestor, and even though his year of office was not due to commence until the fifth day of December (though, as with all the personal quaestors, he would not be required until the New Year, when his superior would enter office), Sulla presented himself the day after the elections at the house of Marius.
November was under way, so dawn was growing later, a fact for which Sulla was profoundly thankful; his nightly excesses with Julilla made early rising more difficult than of yore. But he knew he had to present himself before the sun rose, for Marius’s requesting him as personal quaestor had subtly changed Sulla’s status.
Though it was not a traditional clientship lasting for life, Sulla was now technically Marius’s client for the duration of his quaestorship, which ran as long as Marius kept his imperium, rather than for the normal year. And a client did not lie abed with his new wife into the daylight hours; a client presented himself as the first light infused the sky at the house of his patron, and there offered his services to his patron in whatever manner his patron wished. He might find himself courteously dismissed; he might be asked to go with his patron into the Forum Romanum or one of the basilicae to conduct a day’s public or private business; he might be deputed to perform some task for his patron.
Though he was not untimely enough to deserve rebuke, the vast atrium of Marius’s house was packed with clients more timely than Sulla; some, Sulla decided, must actually have slept in the street outside Marius’s door, for normally they were seen in the order in which they had arrived. Sighing, Sulla made for an inconspicuous corner and prepared for a long wait.
Some great men employed secretaries and nomenclatores to sort the morning’s catch of clients, dismissing the sprats needful only of being noted as present, and sending none but big or interesting fish in to see the great man himself. But Gaius Marius, Sulla noted with approval, acted as his own culler of the catch; there was not an aide to be seen. This particular great man, consul-elect and therefore of enormous importance to many in Rome, did his own dirty work with calm expedition, separating the needful from the dutiful more efficiently than any secretary Sulla knew of. Within twenty minutes the four hundred men clustered in the atrium and spilling onto the peristyle colonnade had been sorted out and tidied up; over half were happily departing, each freedman client or freeman client of lowly status clutching a donative pressed into his hand by a Marius all smiles and deprecating gestures.
Well, thought Sulla, he may be a New Man and he may be more an Italian than a Roman, but he knows how to behave, all right. No Fabius or Aemilius could have performed the role of patron better. It wasn’t necessary to bestow largesse upon clients unless they specifically asked for it, and even then it lay within the discretion of the patron to refuse; but Sulla knew from the attitude of
“Lucius Cornelius, you’ve no need to wait out here!” said Marius when he arrived in Sulla’s corner. “Go into my study, sit down, and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you shortly, and we can talk.”
“Not at all, Gaius Marius,” Sulla said, and smiled with his mouth shut. “I am here to offer you my services as your new quaestor, and I’m happy to wait my turn.”
“Then you can wait your turn seated in my study. If you are to function properly as my quaestor, you’d better see how I conduct my affairs,” said Marius, put a hand on Sulla’s shoulder, and escorted him into the tablinum.
Within three hours the throng of clients was dealt with, patiently yet swiftly; their petitions ranged from some sort of assistance to requests to be considered among the first when Numidia was reopened to Roman and Italian businessmen. Nothing was ever asked of them in return, but the implication was nonetheless patent—have yourself ready to do whatever your patron wishes at any time, be it tomorrow or twenty years from tomorrow.
“Gaius Marius,’’ said Sulla when the last client was gone, “since Quintus Caecilius Metellus has already had his command in Africa prorogued for next year, how can you hope to help your clients into businesses when Numidia is reopened?”
Marius looked pensive. “Why, that’s true, Quintus Caecilius does have Africa next year, doesn’t he?”
As this was clearly a rhetorical question, Sulla didn’t attempt to answer it, just sat fascinated with the way Marius’s mind worked. No wonder he’d got as far as consul!
“Well, Lucius Cornelius, I’ve been thinking about the problem of Quintus Caecilius in Africa, and it’s not insoluble.”
“But the Senate will never replace Quintus Caecilius with you,” Sulla ventured. “I’m not deeply acquainted with the political nuances inside the Senate as yet, but I have certainly experienced your unpopularity among the leading senators, and it seems far too strong to permit you to swim against it.”
“Very true,” said Marius, still smiling pleasantly. “I am an Italian hayseed with no Greek—to quote Metellus, whom I had better inform you I always call Piggle-wiggle—and unworthy of the consulship. Not to mention that I’m fifty years old, which is far too late into office, an age thought beyond great military commands. The dice are loaded against me in the Senate. But then, they always have been, you know. And yet—here I am, consul at fifty! A bit of a mystery, isn’t it, Lucius Cornelius?”
Sulla grinned, which meant he looked a little feral; Marius did not seem perturbed. “Yes, Gaius Marius, it is.”
Marius leaned forward in his chair and folded his beautiful hands together on the fabulous green stone of his desk top. “Lucius Cornelius, many years ago I discovered how very many different ways there are to skin a cat. While others proceeded up the cursus honorum without a hiccough, I marked time. But it was not time wasted. I spent it cataloguing all the ways of skinning that cat. Among other equally rewarding things. You see, when one is kept waiting beyond one’s proper turn, one watches, assesses, puts pieces together. I was never a great lawyer, never an expert on our unwritten Constitution. While Metellus Piggle-wiggle was trailing around the courts behind Cassius Ravilla and learning how to secure condemnations of Vestal Virgins— well, I mean it in an apocryphal sense only, the time frame is quite wrong—I was soldiering. And I continued to soldier. It’s what I do best. Yet, I would not be wrong if I made the boast that I have come to know more about the law and the Constitution than half a hundred Metellus Piggle-wiggles. I look at things from the outside, my brain hasn’t been channeled into a rut by training. So I say to you now, I am going to tumble Quintus Caecilius Metellus Piggle-wiggle from the high horse of his African command, and I myself am going to replace him there.”
“I believe you,” said Sulla, drawing a breath. “But how?”
“They’re all legal simpletons,” said Marius scornfully, “that’s how. Because by custom the Senate has always doled out the governorships, it never occurs to anyone that senatorial decrees do not, strictly speaking, have any weight at law. Oh, they all know that fact if you get them to rattle it off, but it’s never sunk in, even after the lessons the Brothers Gracchi tried to teach them. Senatorial decrees only have the force of custom, of tradition. Not of law! It’s the Plebeian Assembly makes the law these days, Lucius Cornelius. And I wield a great deal more power in the Plebeian Assembly than any Caecilius Metellus.”
Sulla sat absolutely still, awed and a little afraid, two odd sensations in him. Awesome though Marius’s brainpower might be, Marius’s brainpower was not what awed Sulla; no, what awed Sulla was the novel experience of being drawn into a vulnerable man’s complete confidence. How did Marius know he, Sulla, was to be trusted? Trust had never been a part of his reputation, and Marius would have made it his business to explore Sulla’s reputation thoroughly. Yet here was Marius baring his future intentions and actions for Sulla’s inspection! And putting all his trust in his unknown quaestor, just as if that trust had already been earned.
“Gaius Marius,” he said, unable not to say it, “what’s to stop me from turning into the house of any Caecilius Metellus after I leave here this morning, and telling that Caecilius Metellus everything you’re telling me?”
“Why, nothing, Lucius Cornelius,” said Marius, undismayed by the question.
“Then why are you making me privy to all this?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Marius. “Because, Lucius Cornelius, you strike me as a superbly able and intelligent man. And any superbly able and intelligent man is superbly able to use his intelligence to work out for himself that it’s not at all intelligent to throw in his lot with a Caecilius Metellus when a Gaius Marius is offering him the stimulation and the excitement of a few years of interesting and rewarding work.” He drew a huge breath. “There! I got that out quite well.”
Sulla began to laugh. “Your secrets are safe with me, Gaius Marius.”
“I know that.”
“Still and all, I would like you to know that I appreciate your confidence in me.”
“We’re brothers-in-law, Lucius Cornelius. We’re linked, and by more than the Julius Caesars. You see, we share another commonality. Luck.”
“Ah! Luck.”
“Luck is a sign, Lucius Cornelius. To have luck is to be beloved of the gods. To have luck is to be chosen.” And Marius looked at his new quaestor in perfect contentment. “I am chosen. And I chose you because I think you too are chosen. We are important to Rome, Lucius Cornelius. We will both make our mark on Rome.”
“I believe that too,” said Sulla.
“Yes, well… In another month, there will be a new College of Tribunes of the Plebs in office. Once the college is in, I’ll make my move regarding Africa.”
“You’re going to use the Plebeian Assembly to pass a law to topple the senatorial decree giving Metellus Piggle-wiggle another year in Africa,” said Sulla certainly.
“I am indeed,” said Marius.
“But is it really legal? Will such a law be allowed to stand?” asked Sulla; and to himself he began to appreciate how a very intelligent New Man, emancipated from custom, could turn the whole system upside down.
“There’s nothing on the tablets to say it isn’t legal, and therefore nothing to say that it can’t be done. I have a burning desire to emasculate the Senate, and the most effective way to do that is to undermine its traditional authority. How? By legislating its traditional authority out of existence. By creating a precedent.”
“Why is it so important that you get the African command?” Sulla asked. “The Germans have reached as far as Tolosa, and the Germans are far more important than Jugurtha. Someone is going to have to go to Gaul to deal with them next year, and I’d far rather it was you than Lucius Cassius.”
“I won’t get the chance,” said Marius pos
“All right, Africa it is,” said Sulla. “What can I do to help?”
“Learn, Lucius Cornelius, learn! I am going to need a corps of officers who are something more than merely loyal. I want men who can act on their own initiative without ruining my grand design—men who will add to my own ability and efficiency, rather than drain me. I don’t care about sharing the credit, there’s plenty of credit and glory to go around when things are well run and the legions are given a chance to show what they can do.”
“But I’m as green as grass, Gaius Marius.”
“I know that,” said Marius. “But, as I’ve already told you, I think you have great potential. Stick with me, give me loyalty and hard work, and I’ll give you every opportunity to develop that potential. Like me, you’re late starting. But it’s never too late. I’m consul at last, eight years beyond the proper age. You’re in the Senate at last, three years beyond the proper age. Like me, you’re going to have to concentrate upon the army as a way to the top. I’ll help you in every way I can. In return, I expect you to help me.”
“That sounds fair, Gaius Marius.” Sulla cleared his throat. “I’m very grateful.”
“You shouldn’t be. If I didn’t think I’d get a good return from you, Lucius Cornelius, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.” And Marius held out his hand. “Come, let’s agree that there’ll be no gratitude between us! Just loyalty and the comradeship of the legions.”