The First Man in Rome (22 page)

That arrested his progress. Grinning, he stared at her. "Oh, I see! Scylax came a-calling to complain, did he?"

"You might say. He arrived like a tragedian playing Antigone, and left like a comedian playing the eunuch. Clitumna certainly put a squeak in his voice!" She laughed at the memory.

"Serves him right, the old whore. Do you know he'd deliberately prevented the boy's learning to read and write?"

But the saddlebags were gnawing again. "Don't trust us enough to leave them behind while you go out?" she asked.

"I'm not a fool," he said, and departed.

Female curiosity. He
was
a fool, to have overlooked it. So down to the Great Market he took himself and his saddlebags, and in the course of the next hour went on a concentrated shopping spree with the last of his thousand silver denarii, that remnant he had thought to save for the future. Women! Nosy, interfering sows! Why hadn't he thought of it?

The saddlebags weighed down with scarves and bangles, frivolous Eastern slippers and gewgaws for the hair, he was let back into Clitumna's house by a servant who informed him the ladies and Master Stichus were in the dining room, but had elected to wait a while before eating.

"Tell them I'll be there shortly," he said, and went to Nicopolis's suite.

There didn't seem to be anyone about, but to make sure, he closed the shutters on his window and then bolted his door. The hastily purchased presents he heaped on the desk, some new book rolls alongside them. The left-hand bag he ignored; the top layer of clothes in the right-hand bag he dumped out on the bed. Then from the depths of the right-hand bag he drew forth two pairs of rolled-up socks, and fiddled with them until they yielded two small bottles whose stoppers were heavily sealed with wax. Next emerged a plain wooden box, small enough to fit in his hand easily; as if unable to help himself, he lifted its lid, which fitted closely. The contents were uninspiring: just a few ounces of a sluggish off-white powder. Down went the lid; his fingers tamped it firmly into place. Then he looked around the room, frowning. Where?

A row of decrepit little wooden cupboards shaped like models of temples occupied the top of a long, narrow sideboard table: the relics of the House of Cornelius Sulla. All he had inherited from his father, all his father couldn't sell for wine, more likely for lack of a buyer than lack of the will to sell. Five cupboards, each a cube two feet by two feet by two feet; each had painted wooden doors in its front between an outer stand of columns; each had a pediment decorated with carved temple figures at apex and ends; and on the simple entablature running below the pediment, each had a man's name inscribed. One was the original ancestor common to all seven branches of the patrician House of Cornelius; one was Publius Cornelius Rufinus, consul and dictator over two hundred years earlier; one was his son, twice consul and once dictator during the Samnite wars, then expelled from the Senate for hoarding silver plate; one was the first Rufinus to be called Sulla, priest of Jupiter all his life; and the last was his praetor son, Publius Cornelius Sulla Rufinus, famous for his founding of the
ludi Apollinares,
the Games of Apollo.

It was the cupboard of the first Sulla which Sulla opened, very delicately, for the wood had been neglected for many years, and had grown frail. Once the paint had been bright, the tiny relief figures clearly outlined; now they were faded, chipped. One day he intended to find the money to restore his ancestral cupboards, and have a house with an imposing atrium in which he could display his cupboards proudly. However, for the moment it seemed appropriate to hide his two little bottles and his box of powder in the cupboard of Sulla the
flamen Dialis,
most sacred man in the Rome of his day, serving Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

The interior of the cupboard was filled with a life-size bewigged wax mask, exquisitely lifelike, so well had the tints been applied to it. Eyes glared out at Sulla, blue rather than his own palest grey; the skin of Rufinus was fair, but not so fair as Sulla's; and the hair, thick and curling, was a carrot-red rather than a golden-red. Sufficient space lay around the mask to permit its removal, for it was fixed to a wooden head-shaped block from which it could be detached. The last time it had come out was at his father's funeral, which Sulla had paid for in a painful series of encounters with a man he detested.

Lovingly Sulla closed the doors, then plucked at the steps of the podium, which looked smooth and seamless. But, like a real temple, the podium of this ancestral cupboard was hollow; Sulla found the right spot, and out of the front steps there slid a drawer. It was not intended as a hiding place, but as a safe receptacle in which to store the written record of the ancestor's deeds, as well as a detailed description of his size, gait, posture, physical habits, and bodily distinguishing marks. For when a Cornelius Sulla died, an actor would be hired to don the mask and imitate the dead ancestor so accurately that he might be supposed to have come back to see this later scion of his noble house ushered out of the world he himself had once adorned.

The documents relating to Publius Cornelius Sulla Rufinus the priest were inside the drawer, but there was plenty of room for the bottles and the box; Sulla slipped them in, then pushed the drawer shut and made sure the closure was undetectable. His secret would be safe with Rufinus.

Feeling easier, Sulla opened up the window shutters and unbolted his door. And gathered up the heap of fripperies lying all over his desk, with a malicious grin at the scroll he also picked out from among the others stacked there.

Of course Lucius Gavius Stichus was occupying the host's place on the left-hand end of the middle couch; this was one of the few dining rooms where the women reclined rather than sat on upright chairs, since neither Clitumna nor Nicopolis was ruled by old-fashioned shibboleths.

"Here you are, girls," said Sulla, tossing his armful of gifts at the two adoring female faces following his progress into the room like flowers the sun. He had chosen well, things which might indeed have come from elsewhere than a market inside Rome, and things which neither woman would be ashamed to wear.

But before he slid artfully between Clitumna and Nicopolis on the first couch, he slapped the rolled-up book he was holding down in front of Stichus.

"A little something for you, Stichus," he said.

While Sulla settled himself between the two women, who responded with giggles and purrs, Stichus, startled at being the recipient of a gift, untied the tapes holding the book together, and unfurled it. Two scarlet spots flared in his sallow acne-pocked cheeks as his goggling eyes took in the beautifully drawn and painted male figures, penises erect as they performed all manner of athletic feats with each other upon the unsuspecting papyrus. With shaking fingers he rolled the thing up and tied it, then had of course to pluck up the courage to look at his benefactor. Sulla's frightful eyes were gleaming at him over the top of Clitumna's head, speaking silent volumes of contempt.

"Thank you, Lucius Cornelius," Stichus squeaked.

"You're very welcome, Lucius Gavius," said Sulla from the bottom of his throat.

At which moment the
gustatio
—the first course—came in, hastily augmented, Sulla suspected, in honor of his return; for besides the normal fare of olives, lettuce salad, and hard-boiled eggs, it contained some little pheasant sausages and chunks of tunnyfish in oil. Enjoying himself hugely, Sulla tucked in, sliding wicked sidelong glances at Stichus, alone on his couch while his aunt applied as much of her side to Sulla's side as she possibly could, and Nicopolis caressed Sulla's groin shamelessly.

"Well, and what's the news on the home front?" he asked as the first course was cleared away.

"Nothing much," said Nicopolis, more interested in what was happening under her hand.

Sulla turned his head toward Clitumna. "I don't believe her," he said, as he picked up Clitumna's hand and began to nibble its fingers. Then when he saw the look of distaste upon Stichus's face, he began to lick the fingers voluptuously. "Tell me, love"—lick—"because I refuse to believe"—lick—"nothing's happened." Lick, lick, lick.

Luckily the
fercula
—the main courses—arrived at that moment; greedy Clitumna snatched her hand away and stretched it out to grab at the roast mutton with thyme sauce.

"Our neighbors have been busy," she said between swallows, "to make up for how quiet we've been while you were away." A sigh. "Titus Pomponius's wife had a little boy in February."

"Ye  gods,   another  boring  money-hungry  merchant banker for the future!" was Sulla's comment. "Caecilia Pilia is well, I trust?"

"Very! No trouble at all."

“And on the Caesar side?'' He was thinking of delectable Julilla and the grass crown she had given him.

"Big news there!" Clitumna licked her own fingers. ' They had a wedding—quite a society affair.''

Something happened to Sulla's heart; it actually seemed to drop like a stone to the bottom of his belly, and sit there churning amid the food. The oddest sensation.

"Oh, really?" He kept his tone disinterested.

"Indeed! Caesar's elder daughter married none other than
Gaius Marius!
Disgusting, isn't it?"

"Gaius Marius..."

"What, don't you know him?" Clitumna asked.

"I don't think so.
Marius
... He must be a New Man."

"That's right. He was praetor five years ago, never made it to the consulship, of course. But he was governor of Further Spain, and made an absolute fortune out there. Mines and the like," said Clitumna.

For some reason Sulla remembered the man with the mien of an eagle at the inauguration of the new consuls; he had worn a purple-bordered toga. "What does he look like?"

"Grotesque, my dear! The most enormous eyebrows! Like hairy caterpillars." Clitumna reached for the braised broccoli. "He's at least thirty years older than Julia, poor dear.''

"What's so unusual about that?" demanded Stichus, feeling it time he had something to say. "At least half the girls in Rome marry men old enough to be their fathers."

Nicopolis frowned. "I wouldn't go so far as to say
half,
Stichy," she said. "A quarter would be more like it."

"Disgusting!" said Stichus.

"Disgusting, rubbish!" said Nicopolis vigorously, sitting up so she could glare at him more effectively. "Let me tell you, fart-face, that there's a lot to be said for older men as far as a young girl is concerned! At least older men have learned to be considerate and reasonable! My worst lovers were all under twenty-five. Think they know it all, but know nothing. Erk! Like being hit by a bull. Over before it starts.''

Since Stichus was twenty-three years old, he bridled.

"Oh, you would! Think you know it all, don't you?" he sneered.

The look he got was level. "I know more than you do, fart-face," she said.

"Now, now, let's be happy tonight!" cried Clitumna. "Our darling Lucius Cornelius is back."

Their darling Lucius Cornelius promptly grabbed his stepmother and rolled her over on the couch, tickling her ribs until she screeched shrilly and kicked her legs in the air. Nicopolis retaliated by tickling Sulla, and the first couch became a melee.

This was too much for Stichus; clutching his new book, he slid off his couch and stalked out of the room, not sure they even noticed his going. How was he going to dislodge that man? Auntie Clittie was besotted! Even while Sulla was away, he had not managed to persuade her to send Sulla packing. She just wept that it was a pity her two darling boys couldn't get on.

Though he had eaten hardly anything, Stichus wasn't upset by the fact, for in his study he kept an interesting array of comestibles—a jar of his favorite figs in syrup, a little tray of honeyed pastry the cook was under orders to keep filled, some tongue-cloying perfumed jellies which came all the way from Parthia, a box of plumply juicy raisins, honey cakes, and honeyed wine. Roast mutton and braised broccoli he could live without; every tooth in his head was a sweet one.

Chin on his hand, a quintuple lamp chasing away the beginnings of evening, Lucius Gavius Stichus munched syruped figs while he carefully perused the illustrations of the book Sulla had given him, and read the short accompanying Greek text. Of course he knew the present was Sulla's way of saying
he
didn't need such books, because he'd done it all, but that couldn't stifle his interest; Stichus was not endowed with so much pride. Ah! Ah ah ah! Something was happening under his embroidered tunic! And he dropped his hand from chin to lap with a furtive innocence quite wasted upon its only audience, the jar of syruped figs.

*     *     *

Yielding to an impulse he despised himself for feeling, Lucius Cornelius Sulla walked next morning across the Palatine to the spot on the Palatium where he had encountered Julilla. It was high spring now, and the patches of parkland sported flowers everywhere, narcissus and anemone, hyacinths, violets, even an occasional early rose; wild apples and peaches were in full blossom, white and pink, and the rock upon which he had sat in January now was almost hidden by lushly green grass.

Her servant girl in attendance, Julilla was there, looking thinner, less honey-colored. And when she saw him, a wild triumphant joy suffused her from eyes to skin to hair—so
beautiful
!  Oh, never in the history of the world had any mortal woman been so beautiful! Hackles rising, Sulla stopped in his tracks, filled with an awe akin to terror. Venus. She was Venus. Ruler of life and death. For what was life except the procreative principle, and what was death save its extinction? All else was decoration, the furbelows men invented to convince themselves life and death
must
mean more. She was Venus. But did that make him Mars, her equal in godhead—or was he merely Anchises, a mortal man she stooped to fancy for the space of one Olympian heartbeat?

No, he wasn't Mars. His life had equipped him for pure ornamentation, and even that of the cheapest gimcrack kind; who could he be but Anchises, the man whose only real fame lay in the fact that Venus stooped to fancy him for a moment? He shook with anger, directed his hateful frustration at her, and so pumped venom into his veins, creating an overwhelming urge to strike at her, reduce her from Venus to Julilla.