The First Man in Rome (52 page)

And at its top he emerged onto a grassy shelf perhaps a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide at its widest point, which was where the chimney came to its termination. Because all of this occurred on the north face of the rugged volcanic outcrop—actually the eroded remnant of the lava plug, for the outer mountain itself had disappeared aeons before—the shelf was permanently wet from seepage, some of which dripped over the rim of the fumarole, but most of which ran down the rocks on the outside at the point where the shelf sloped to form a fissure. A great crag some hundred feet above overhung most of the shelf, and the cliff between shelf and overhang was hollowed out into an open-fronted cave wet with seepage, a wonderful wall of ferns, mosses, liverworts, and sedges; at one place so much water was being squeezed out of the rock by the enormous pressures of the upper mountain that a tiny rivulet twinkled and fell with copious splashes along its way, and ran off with the other seepage over the edge of the shelf. Clearly this was the reason why the grass on the plain at the northern base of the outcrop was sweeter.

Where the great cave now yawned had once been a deposit of mud agglomerate which penetrated much deeper into the lava plug, gathered water, and emerged to the surface only to be greedily chewed away by wind and frosts. One day, the expert mountain man Publius Vagiennius knew, the basalt crag teetering so ominously overhead would become undermined enough to break off; shelf and cave would be buried, as would the old volcanic chimney.

The great cave was perfect snail country, permanently damp, a pocket of humid air in a notoriously dry land, stuffed with all the decayed plant matter and minute dead insects snails adored, always shady, protected from the brunt of the winds by a crag from below that reared up much higher than the shelf for a third of its length, and curved outward, thus deflecting the winds.

The whole place reeked of snails, but not snails of any kind known to Publius Vagiennius, said his nose. When he finally saw one, he gaped. Its shell was as big as the palm of his hand! Having seen one, he soon distinguished dozens, and then hundreds, none of them shorter in the shell than his index finger, some of them longer than his outstretched hand. Hardly believing his eyes, he climbed up into the cave, scouted it with ever-increasing amazement, and finally arrived at its far edge, where he found a way up and up and up; not a snake path, he thought in amusement, but a snail path!

The path dived into a crevice which opened into a smaller, more enclosed, ferny cave. The snails kept getting more numerous. And then he found himself around the side of the overhang, discovered it was in itself over a hundred feet thick, kept on climbing until, with a heave, he came out of Snail Paradise into Snail Tartarus, the dry and windswept lava plug atop the overhang. He gasped, panicked, ducked quickly behind a rock; for there not five hundred feet above him was the fortress. So easy was the incline he could have walked up it without a staff, and so low was the citadel wall he could have pulled himself over it without a helping shove from beneath.

Publius Vagiennius descended back to the snail path, got down into the lower reaches of the cave, and there paused to pop half a dozen of the largest snails into the bloused chest section of his tunic, each well wrapped in wet leaves. Then he began the serious descent, hindered by his precious cargo yet inspired by it to superhuman feats of rock climbing. And finally emerged into his little flower-filled dell.

A long drink of water, and he felt better; his snails were snug, slimy, safe. Not intending to share them with anyone, he transferred them from his tunic to his lunch pouch, complete with wet leaves and a few chunks of much drier humus collected in the dell, moistened from his water bag. The lunch pouch he tied securely to prevent the snails' escape, and put it in a shady place.

The next day he dined superbly, having brought a kettle with him in which to steam two of his catches, and some good oil-and-garlic sauce. Oh, what snails! Size in a snail most definitely did not mean toughness. Size in a snail simply meant additional nuances of flavor and more to eat with a lot less fiddling about.

He dined on two snails each day for six days, making one more trip up the fumarole to fetch down the second half dozen. But on the seventh day his conscience began to gnaw at him; had he been a more introspective sort of fellow, he might have come to the conclusion that his pangs of conscience were increasing in linear proportion to his pangs of snail-sated indigestion. At first all he thought was that he was a selfish
mentula,
to hoard the snails entirely for himself when he had good friends among his squadron's members. And then he began to think about the fact that he had discovered a way to scale the mountain.

For three more days he battled his conscience, and finally suffered from an attack of gastritis which quite killed all his appetite for snails and made him wish he had never heard of them. That made up his mind.

He didn't bother about reporting to his squadron commander; he went straight to the top.

Roughly in the center of the camp, where the
via praetoria
connecting the main and rear gates intersected with the
via principalis
connecting the two side gates, sat the general's command tent and its flagpole, with an open space on either flank for assemblies. Here, in a hide structure substantial enough to warrant a proper wooden framework, Gaius Marius had his command headquarters and his living quarters; under the shade of a long awning which extended in front of the main entrance was a table and chair, occupied by the military tribune of the day. It was his duty to screen those wanting to see the general, or to route inquiries about this or that to the proper destinations. Two sentries stood one to either side of the entrance, at ease but vigilant, the monotony of this duty alleviated by the fact that they could overhear all conversation between the duty tribune and those who came to see him.

Quintus Sertorius was on duty, and enjoying himself enormously. Solving conundrums of supply, discipline, morale, and men appealed to him, and he loved the increasingly complex and responsible tasks Gaius Marius gave him. If ever there was a case of hero worship, it existed in Quintus Sertorius, its object Gaius Marius; the embryonic master-soldier recognizing the mature form. Nothing Gaius Marius could have asked of him would have seemed a distasteful chore to Quintus Sertorius, so where other junior military tribunes loathed desk duty outside the general's tent, Quintus Sertorius welcomed it.

When the Ligurian horse trooper lurched up with the gait peculiar to men who straddle horses with their legs hanging down unsupported all their lives, Quintus Sertorius regarded him with interest. Not a very prepossessing sort of fellow, he had a face only his mother could have thought beautiful, but his mail shirt was buffed up nicely, his soft-soled Ligurian felt riding shoes were adorned with a pair of sparkling spurs, and his leather knee breeches were respectably clean. If he smelled a little of horses, that was only to be expected; all troopers did, it was ingrained, and had nothing to do with how many baths they took or how often they washed their clothes.

One pair of shrewd brown eyes looked into another pair, each liking what it saw.

No decorations yet, thought Quintus Sertorius, but then, the cavalry hadn't really seen any action yet, either.

Young for this job, thought Publius Vagiennius, but a real neat-looking soldier, if ever I saw one—typical Roman foot-slogger, though; no taste for horses.

"Publius Vagiennius, Ligurian cavalry squadron," said Publius Vagiennius. "I'd like to see Gaius Marius."

"Rank?" asked Quintus Sertorius.

"Trooper," said Publius Vagiennius.

"Your business?"

"That's private."

"The   general,"   said   Quintus   Sertorius   pleasantly, "doesn't see ordinary troopers of auxiliary cavalry, especially escorted by no one save themselves. Where's your tribune, trooper?"

"He don't know I'm here," said Publius Vagiennius, looking mulish. "My business is private."

"Gaius Marius is a very busy man," said Quintus Sertorius.

Publius Vagiennius leaned both hands on the table and thrust his head closer, almost asphyxiating Sertorius with the smell of garlic. "Now listen, young sir, you tell Gaius Marius I've got a proposition of great advantage to him— but I'm not going to spill it to anyone else, and that's final."

Keeping his eyes aloof and his face straight while he was dying to burst out laughing, Quintus Sertorius got to his feet. "Wait here, trooper," he said.

The interior of the tent was divided into two areas by a leather wall sliced up its center to form a flap. The back room formed Marius's living quarters, the front room his office. This front room was by far the bigger of the two, and held an assortment of folding chairs and tables, racks of maps, some models of siege-works the engineers had been playing with regarding Muluchath Mountain, and portable sets of pigeonholed shelves in which reposed various documents, scrolls, book buckets, and loose papers.

Gaius Marius was sitting on his ivory curule chair to one side of the big folding table he called his personal desk, with Aulus Manlius, his legate, on its other side, and Lucius Cornelius Sulla, his quaestor, between them. They were clearly engaged in the activity which they detested most, but which was dear to the hearts of the bureaucrats who ran the Treasury—going through the accounts and keeping the books. That this was a preliminary conference was easy to see for a Quintus Sertorius; if it had been serious, several clerks and scribes would also have been in attendance.

"Gaius Marius, I apologize for interrupting you," said Sertorius, rather diffidently.

Something in his tone made all three men lift their heads to look at him closely.

"You're forgiven, Quintus Sertorius. What is it?" asked Marius, smiling.

"Well, it's probably a complete waste of your time, but I've got a trooper of Ligurian cavalry outside who insists on seeing you, Gaius Marius, but won't tell me why."

"A trooper of Ligurian cavalry," said Marius slowly. "And what does his tribune have to say?"

"He hasn't consulted his tribune."

"Oh, top secret, eh?" Marius surveyed Sertorius shrewdly. "Why should I see this man, Quintus Sertorius?"

Quintus Sertorius grinned. "If I could tell you that, I'd be a lot better at my job," he said. "I don't know why, and that's an honest answer. But—I don't know, I'm probably wrong, but—I think you should see him, Gaius Marius. I've got a feeling about it."

Marius laid down the paper in his hand. "Bring him in."

The sight of all the Senior Command sitting together did not even dent Publius Vagiennius's confidence; he stood blinking in the dimmer light, no fear on his face.

"This is Publius Vagiennius," said Sertorius, preparing to leave again.

"Stay here, Quintus Sertorius," said Marius. "Well now, Publius Vagiennius, what have you to say to me?"

"Quite a lot," said Publius Vagiennius.

"Then spit it out, man!"

"I will, I will!" said Publius Vagiennius, uncowed. "The thing is, I'm just going through my options first. Do I lay my information, or put up my business proposition?"

"Does one hinge upon the other?" asked Aulus Manlius.

"It most certainly do, Aulus Manlius."

"Then let's have the business proposition first," said Marius, poker-faced. "I like the oblique approach."

"Snails," said Publius Vagiennius.

All four Romans looked at him, but no one spoke.

"My business proposition," said Publius Vagiennius patiently. "It's snails. The biggest, juiciest snails you ever seen!"

"So that's why you reek of garlic!" said Sulla.

"Can't eat snails without garlic," said Vagiennius.

"How can we help you with your snails?" asked Marius.

"I want a concession," said Vagiennius, "and I want a introduction to the right people in Rome to market them."

"I see." Marius looked at Manlius, Sulla, Sertorius. No one was smiling. "All right, you've got your concession, and I imagine between us we can scrape up the odd introduction. Now what's the information you want to lay?"

"I found a way up the mountain."

Sulla and Aulus Manlius sat up straight.

''You found a way up the mountain," said Marius slowly.

"Yes."

Marius got up from behind the table. "Show me," he said.

But Publius Vagiennius backed away. "Well, I will, Gaius Marius, I will! But not until we sort out my snails."

"Can't it wait, man?" asked Sulla, looking ominous.

"No, Lucius Cornelius, it can't!" said Publius Vagiennius, thereby demonstrating that he knew all the names of the Senior Command when he saw them. "The way to the top of the mountain goes straight through the middle of my snail patch. And it's
my
snail patch! The best snails in the whole world too! Here." He unslung his lunch pouch from its rather incongruous resting place athwart his long cavalry sword, opened it, and carefully withdrew an eight-inch-long snail shell, which he put on Marius's desk.

They all looked at it fixedly, in complete silence. Since the surface of the table was cool and sleek, after a moment or two the snail ventured out, for it was hungry, and it had been jolted around inside Publius Vagiennius's lunch pouch for some time, deprived of tranquillity. Now it rabbited out of its hat as snails do, not emerging like a tortoise, but rather jacking its shell up into the air and expanding into existence under it via slimy amorphous lumps. One such lump formed itself into a tapering tail, and the opposite lump into a stumpy head which lifted bleary stalks into the air by growing them out of nothing. Its metamorphosis complete, it began to chomp quite audibly upon the mulch Publius Vagiennius had wrapped around it.

"Now that," said Gaius Marius, "is what I call a
snail
!
"

"Rather!" breathed Quintus Sertorius.

"You could feed an army on those," said Sulla, who was a conservative eater, and didn't like snails any more than he liked mushrooms.

"That's it!" yelped Publius Vagiennius. "That's just it! I don't want them greedy
mentulae"
—his audience winced—"pinching my snails! There's a lot of snails, but five hundred soldiers'd see the end of them! Now I want to bring them to some place handy to Rome and breed them, and I don't want my snail patch ruined either. I want that concession, and I want my snail patch kept safe from all the
cunni
in this here army!"