The Grass Crown (69 page)

Sulla lifted his shoulders, got up. “Be it on your own head. You’ve got the ague.”

And that, he reflected, going through the door onto the street without turning back this time, was that. Lucius Caesar was going to enter the Melfa Gorge in no fit state to organize a harvest dance. He was going to be ambushed, and he was going to have to retire to Teanum Sidicinum a second time to lick his wounds, with too many precious men lying dead in the bottom of that treacherous defile. Oh, why were they always so pigheaded, so obtuse?

Not very far down the street he encountered the Piglet, looking equally grim.

“You’ve got a sick man in there,” said Sulla, jerking his head toward the house.

“Don’t rub it in!” cried Metellus Pius. “At the best of times he’s quite impossible to cheer up, but in the grip of an ague—I despair! What did you do to make him stiffen up and ignore you?”

“Told him to forget Aesernia and concentrate on driving the Samnites out of western Campania.”

“Yes, that would account for it, with our commander-in-chief in his present state,” said the Piglet, finding a smile.

The Piglet’s stammer had always fascinated Sulla, who said now, “Your stammer’s pretty good these days.”

“Oh, why did you have to suh-suh-say that, Lucius Cornelius? It’s only all ruh-ruh-right as long as I don’t think about it, cuh-cuh-curse you!”

“Really? that’s interesting. You didn’t stammer before—when? Arausio, wasn’t it?”

“ Yes. It’ s a puh-puh-puh-pain in the arse!” Metellus Pius drew a deep breath and endeavored to dismiss the thought of his speech impediment from consciousness. “In your pruh-pruh-present state of odium, I don’t suppose he tuh-tuh-told you what he’s planning to do when he gets back to Rome?”

“No. What is he planning to do?”

“Grant the citizenship to every Italian who hasn’t so far lifted a finger against us.”

“You’re joking!”

“Not I, Lucius Cornelius! In his company? I’ve forgotten what a joke is. It’s true, I swear it’s true. As soon as things run down here—well, they always do when autumn gets old—he’s putting off his general’s suit and putting on his purple-bordered tuh-tuh-toga. His last act as consul, he says, will be to grant the citizenship to every Italian who hasn’t gone to war against us.”

“But that’s treason! Do you mean to say that he and the rest of the inadequate idiots in command have lost thousands of men for the sake of something they haven’t even got the stomach to see through?” Sulla was trembling. “Do you mean to say he’s leading six legions into the Melfa Gorge knowing every life he loses in the process is worthless? Knowing that he intends to open Rome’s back door to every last Italian in the peninsula? Because that is what will happen, you know. They’ll all get the franchise, from Silo and Mutilus down to the last freedman Silo and Mutilus have in their clientele! Oh, he can’t!”

“There’s no use shouting at me, Lucius Cornelius! I’ll be one of those fighting the franchise to the bitter end.”

“You won’t even get the chance to fight it, Quintus Caecilius. You’ll be in the field, not in the Senate. Only Scaurus will be there to fight it, and he’s too old.” Lips thin, Sulla stared sightlessly down the busy street. “It’s Philippus and the rest of the saltatrices tonsae will vote. And they’ll vote yes. As will the Comitia.”

“You’ll be in the field too, Lucius Cornelius,” said the Piglet gloomily. “I huh-huh-hear you’ve been seconded to duty with Gaius Marius, the fat old Italian turnip! He won’t disapprove of Lucius Julius’s law, I’ll bet!”

“I’m not so sure,” said Sulla, and sighed. “One thing you have to admit about Gaius Marius, Quintus Caecilius—he’s first and last and foremost a soldier. Before his days in the field are over, there’ll be a few Marsi too dead to apply for the citizenship.”

“Let us hope so, Lucius Cornelius. Because on the day that Gaius Marius enters a Senate half full of Italians, he’ll be the First Man in Rome again. And consul a seventh time.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Sulla.

The next day Sulla detached his two legions from the tail of Lucius Caesar’s column when it wheeled right ahead of him onto the road leading up the Melfa River. He himself kept to the Via Latina, crossing the Melfa en route to the old ruined township of Fregellae, reduced to rubble by Lucius Opimius after its rebellion thirty-five years before. His legions halted outside the curiously peaceful, flower-filled dells created by Fregellae’s fallen walls and towers. In no mood to supervise his tribunes and centurions doing something as fundamental as pitching fortified camp, Sulla himself walked on alone into the deserted town.

Here it lies, he thought, everything we’re currently fighting about. Here it lies the way those asses in the Senate assured us it would be by the time we put this new Italy-wide revolution down. We’ve given our time, our taxes, our very lives to turn Italy into one vast Fregellae. We said every Italian life would be forfeit. Crimson poppies would grow in ground crimson with Italian blood. We said Italian skulls would bleach to the color of those white roses, and the yellow eyes of daisies would stare blindly up at the sun out of their empty orbits. What are we doing this for, if it is all to go for nothing? Why have we died and why are we still dying if it is all for nothing? He will legislate the citizenship for the half-rebels in Umbria and Etruria. After that, he cannot stop. Or someone else will pick up the wand of imperium he drops. They will all get the citizenship, their hands still red with our blood. What are we doing this for if it is all to go for nothing? We, the heirs of the Trojans, who therefore should well know the feeling of traitors within the gates. We, who are Roman, not Italian. And he will see them become Roman. Between him and those in his like, they will destroy everything Rome stands for. Their Rome will not be the Rome of their ancestors, nor my Rome. This ruined Italian garden here at Fregellae is my Rome, the Rome of my ancestors—strong enough and sure enough to grow flowers in rebellious streets, free them for the hum and twitter of bees and birds.

He wasn’t sure how much of the shimmer in front of his eyes was a part of his grief, how much a part of the blistering cobbles beneath his feet. But through its rivulets in the air he began to discern an approaching shape, blue and bulky—a Roman general walking toward a Roman general. Now more black than blue, men a shining glitter off cuirass and helm. Gaius Marius! Gaius Marius the Italian.

The breath Sulla drew in sobbed, the heart within his chest tripped and stammered. He stopped in his tracks, waited for Marius.

“Lucius Cornelius.”

“Gaius Marius.”

Neither man moved to touch the other. Then Marius turned and ranged himself alongside Sulla and the two of them walked on, silent as the tomb. It was Marius who finally cleared his throat, Marius who could not bear these unspoken emotions.

He said, “I suppose Lucius Julius is on his way to Aesernia?”

“Yes.”

“He ought to be on Crater Bay taking back Pompeii and Stabiae. Otacilius is building a nice little navy now he’s getting a few more recruits. The navy is always a bad last in the Senate’s order of preference. However, I hear the Senate is going to induct all of Rome’s able-bodied freedmen into a special force to garrison and protect the coasts of upper Campania and lower Latium. So Otacilius will be able to take all the current coastal militia into his navy.”

Sulla grunted. “Huh! And when do the Conscript Fathers intend to get around to decreeing this?”

“Who knows? At least they’ve started talking about it.”

“Wonder of wonders!”

“You sound incredibly bitter. Lucius Julius getting on your nerves? I’m not surprised.”

“Yes, Gaius Marius, I am indeed bitter,” said Sulla calmly. “I’ve been walking up this beautiful road thinking about the fate of Fregellae, and the prospective fate of our present crop of enemy Italians. You see, Lucius Julius intends to legislate the Roman citizenship for all Italians who have remained peacefully inclined toward Rome. Isn’t that nice?”

Marius’s step faltered for a moment, then resumed its rather ponderous rhythm. “Does he now? When? Before or after he dashes himself on the rocks of Aesernia?”

“After.”

“Makes you implore the gods to tell you what all the fighting is about, doesn’t it?” asked Marius, unconsciously echoing Sulla’s thoughts. A rumble of laughter came. “Still, I love to soldier, and that’s the truth. Hopefully there’s a battle or two left before the Senate and People of Rome completely crumble in their resolve! What a turnabout! And would that we might raise Marcus Livius Drusus from the dead. Then none of it need have happened. The Treasury would be full instead of emptier than a fool’s head, and the peninsula would be peacefully, happily, contentedly stuffed with legal Romans.”

“Yes.”

They fell silent, walked on into the shell of the Fregellae forum, where occasional columns and flights of steps leading up to nothing reared above the grass and flowers.

“I have a job for you,” said Marius, sitting down on a block of stone. “Here, stand in the shade or sit down with me, Lucius Cornelius, do! Then take off that wretched hat so I can see what those eyes of yours contain.”

Sulla moved into the shade obediently and obediently doffed his hat, but did not sit down, and did not speak.

“No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve come to Fregellae to see you instead of waiting in Reate.”

“I presume you don’t want me in Reate.”

A laugh boomed. “Always up to my tricks, Lucius Cornelius, aren’t you? Quite right. I don’t want you in Reate.” The lingering grin disappeared. “But nor did I want to set my plans down in a letter. The fewer people who know what you’re going to be up to, the better. Not that I have any reason to assume there’s a spy in Lucius Julius’s command tent—just that I’m prudent.”

“The only way to keep a secret is not to tell anybody.”

“True, true.” Marius huffed so deeply that the straps and buckles of his cuirass groaned. “You, Lucius Cornelius, will leave the Via Latina here. You’ll head up the Liris toward Sora, where you will turn with the Liris and follow it to its sources. In other words, I want you on the southern side of the watershed, some few miles from the Via Valeria.”

“So far I understand my part. What about yours?”

“While you’re moving up the Liris, I’ll be marching from Reate toward the western pass on the Via Valeria. I intend to broach the road itself beyond Carseoli. That town is in ruins, and garrisoned by the enemy—Marrucini, my scouts tell me, commanded by Herius Asinius himself. If possible I’ll force a battle with him for possession of the Via Valeria before it enters the pass. At that stage I want you level with me—but south of the watershed.”

“South of the watershed without the enemy’s knowledge,” said Sulla, beginning to lose his coolness.

“Precisely. That means you’ll kill everyone you see. It’s so well known that I lie to the north of the Via Valeria that I’m hoping it won’t occur to either the Marrucini or the Marsi that there might be an army coming up on the southern flank. I’ll try to focus all their attention on my own movements.” Marius smiled. “You, of course, are with Lucius Julius on your way to Aesernia.”

“You haven’t lost the gift of generaling, Gaius Marius.”

The fierce brown eyes flashed. “I hope not! Because, Lucius Cornelius, I tell you plainly—if I lose the gift of generaling, there’ll be no one in this benighted conflagration to take my place. We’ll end in granting the citizenship on the battlefield to those in arms against us.”

Part of Sulla wanted to pursue the citizenship tack, but the dominant part had other ideas. “What about me?” he blurted. “I can general.”

“Yes, yes, of course you can,” said Marius in soothing tones. “I don’t deny that for a moment. But generaling isn’t in your very bones, Lucius Cornelius.”

“Good generaling can be learned,” Sulla said stubbornly.

“Good generaling can indeed be learned. As you have done. But if it isn’t in your very bones, Lucius Cornelius, you can never rise above mere good generaling,” said Marius, utterly oblivious to the fact that what he was saying was derogatory. “Sometimes mere good generaling isn’t good enough. Inspired generaling is called for. And that’s either in the bones, or absent.”

“One day,” said Sulla pensively, “Rome will find herself without you, Gaius Marius. And then—why, we shall see! I’ll be holding the high command.”

Still Marius failed to understand, still he didn’t divine what lay in Sulla’s thoughts. Instead, he chortled merrily. “Well, Lucius Cornelius, we’ll just have to hope that when that day comes, all Rome will need is a good general. Won’t we?”

“Whatever you say,” said Lucius Cornelius Sulla.

The galling factor was that—of course!—Marius’s plan was perfect. Sulla and his two legions penetrated as far as Sora without encountering any enemy at all, then—in what amounted to no more than a skirmish—he defeated a small force of Picentes under Titus Herennius. From Sora to the sources of the Liris he met only Latin and Sabine farmers who greeted his appearance with such transparent joy that he refrained from carrying out Marius’s orders and killing them. Those Picentes who had escaped at Sora were more likely by far to report his presence, but he had given them the impression that his was a mission to Sora given to him by Lucius Caesar, and that he was marching then to join Lucius Caesar east of the Melfa Gorge. Hopefully the remnants of Titus Herennius’s Picentes and the Paeligni were lying in wait for Sulla in quite the wrong place.

Marius, Sulla knew from constant communication, had done as he promised and broached the Via Valeria beyond Carseoli. Herius Asinius and his Marrucini had contested the road on the spot, and gone down to crushing defeat after Marius tricked them into thinking he didn’t want a battle there. Herius Asinius himself perished, as did most of his army. Thus Marius marched into the western pass under no threat at all, now heading for Alba Fucentia with four legions comprised of men sure of victory—how could they possibly lose with the old Arpinate fox in their lead? They were blooded, and blooded well.

Sulla and his two legions shadowed Marius along the Via Valeria until the watershed separating them flattened out into the Marsic upland basin around Lake Fucinus; but even then Sulla kept ten miles between himself and Marius, skulking in a surprisingly easy concealment. For this fact, he had cause to be grateful to the Marsians’ love of making their own wine, despite the handicaps of the area. South of the Via Valeria the country was solid vineyard, a vast expanse of grapes grown inside small high-walled enclosures to protect them from the bitter winds which swept off the mountains at just that time of year when the tender grape florets were forming and the insects needed calm air to pollinate. Now Sulla did kill as he went, women and children in the main; all save the oldest men had gone from the lakeside hamlets and farms to serve in the army.