Of course manhood had changed all that. Once his beard grew in sufficiently for him to have to shave daily, and he sprouted a chest of red-gold hair, his appeal to men faded— and the largesse along with it. Women, he discovered, were bigger fools and had a hankering to settle down which made them exploitable. As a child he had never really known many women, for his mother had died before he was old enough to form a memory of her he could cherish, and his father, an impoverished drunkard, cared little for either of his progeny. Sulla had a sister, Cornelia Sulla, two years older than he was; equally spectacular in looks, she had seized a chance of marriage with a very rich rustic from Picenum named Lucius Nonius, and gone north with him to enjoy whatever luxuries life in Picenum might hold. That left the sixteen-year-old Sulla to look after his father unaided, which affected the quality of their lives chiefly on the level of cleanliness.
Then when Sulla turned twenty-four, his father remarried. It was not the social event of the year, but it did bring a measure of relief to the young man, who had been used for years to having to find sufficient money to underwrite his father’s bottomless thirst. For his father’s new wife (by name Clitumna, by birth an Umbrian peasant) was the relict of a very rich merchant, and had managed to inherit all her dead husband’s property by dint of destroying his will and packing his only child off to Calabria as the wife of an oil vendor.
Just what Clitumna saw in the decayed Sulla Senior at first was beyond his son; then Clitumna invited his son to share her commodious house on the Germalus of the Palatine, and promptly hopped out of her new husband’s bed and into young Sulla’s. Somewhere, he discovered at that moment, there did burn in him a small spark of loyalty and affection for his importunate parent, for he foisted Clitumna off as tactfully as possible and immediately moved out.
He had managed to save a very little, and found two rooms in a huge insula on the Esquiline near the Agger for a rent he could just afford: three thousand sesterces a year. This gave him a room for himself and another for his servant to sleep and cook in, plus the laundry labor of a girl who lived two floors higher up in the crumbling tenement and did for various tenants in all sorts of ways. Once a week she took his dirty clothing down the alley to where a crossroads widened the maze of streets into a tiny, irregular, square; in it were a shrine of the crossroads, a clubhouse where the crossroads sodality met, and a fountain spewing a continuous trickle of water out of the mouth of an ugly old Silanus into a stone-bottomed pool donated to the city— one of many—by that grand old man of history, Cato the Censor, a man as practical as he had been lowborn. Fighting for elbow room, she pounded Sulla’s tunics on the stones, borrowed the assistance of another washerwoman to wring every garment bone-dry (having performed the same service for her fellow), and then brought him back his laundry neatly folded. Her price was simple; a quick in-and-out and none the wiser, especially the sour old bird she lived with.
At which point he met Nicopolis. Victory City, her name meant in her native Greek. She was certainly that to him, for she was a widow, comfortably off, and in love with him to the point of madness. The only trouble was that while she was happy to support him in lavish fashion, she was far too shrewd to give him an allowance. The twin, he recognized gloomily, of his stepmother, Clitumna. Women were fools, but they were clever fools. Either that, or he was far too transparent.
Two years after he had moved out of Clitumna’s splendid house, his father died, having guzzled himself with unalloyed happiness into terminal liver disease; and if he had been the price Clitumna was prepared to pay in order to catch his son, then her ruse worked at last, especially after Sulla discovered that Clitumna was not at all averse to sharing his favors—and her bed—with Nicopolis the Greek tart. The three of them settled down into a cozy relationship in the house on the Palatine, a relationship which had only one occasional marring element, Sulla’s weakness for young boys. It was not, he assured his two women, a serious weakness; he had no taste for the innocent, no desire to seduce the sons of senators as they cavorted on the exercise fields of the Campus Martius, playing at fencing with their wooden swords and vaulting on and off the backs of stuffed bolsters saddled just like real horses. No, Sulla liked trollops, the professional pretty-boys up to every trick in town; the truth was, they reminded him of himself at the same age.
But because his women detested his trollops, and he was in spite of his sexual appetites very much a man, he resisted his urges in this direction for the sake of domestic harmony, or else made sure he indulged himself mighty far away from the ken of Clitumna and Nicopolis. Until New Year’s Eve, the last hours of the consulship of Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica and Lucius Calpurnius Bestia, the last hours before the commencement of the consulship of Marcus Minucius Rufus and Spurius Postumius Albinus. The Eve of Metrobius, it was likely to come to be called, if Clitumna and Nicopolis had anything to do with it.
The three of them adored the theater, but not the highbrow Greek stuff of Sophocles and Aeschylus and Euripides, all masks and groaning throbbing voices and high-flown poetry. No, they loved comedy—the giggle-gorged Latin larkery of Plautus and Naevius and Terence; and above all else the simple, maskless idiocy of the pure mime, with its naked strumpets, clumsy fools, clarion farts, elaborate practical jokes, improbable plots made up on the spur of the moment from traditional repertoires. Tall daisies stuck in arses wiggle-waggled; the movement of one finger was more eloquent than a thousand words; blindfolded fathers-in-law mistook tits for ripe melons; the adulteries were insane and the gods drunk—nothing was sacred in the name of Mimus.
They were friends with every comedic actor and director in Rome, didn’t consider they threw a good party unless a cluster of “names” were present. As far as they were concerned, the tragic theater didn’t exist—and in that they were true Romans, for Romans adored a good laugh.
So to the party at Clitumna’s house on New Year’s Eve were invited Scylax, Astera, Milo, Pedocles, Daphne, and Marsyas. It was of course a costume party; Clitumna reveled in dressing up, so did Nicopolis, and Sulla liked female impersonation of a certain kind, the kind where the onlooker can laugh at the antics of a patent man mocking women.
Sulla had therefore got himself up as Medusa the Gorgon, complete with a wig of genuine living snakelets that had the whole room screaming in terror every time he lowered his head and threatened to charge, and a flowing mass of draperies in Coan floss silk that showed the guests his biggest snake all too clearly. His stepmother came as an ape, which meant she capered and scratched in a hairy coat, and bared blue-painted buttocks. Rather more orthodox because she was rather more beautiful than Clitumna, Nicopolis tricked herself out as Diana of the Grove, thus exposing her long slender legs and one perfect breast as she cavorted about to make the tinny arrows in her quiver rattle in time to the music of flutes, pipes, bells, lyres, and drums.
The party got off to a swinging start. Sulla in his snaky getup was an undeniable success, but Clitumna the Ape was funniest. The wine flowed; the laughter and shrieks burst out of the peristyle-garden at the back of the house and drove all the conservative neighbors mad long before New Year’s Eve became New Year’s Day. Then, last guest to arrive, Scylax teetered through the door in cork-soled platform sandals, a golden-blonde wig, huge tits inflating his gorgeous gown, and the maquillage of an old whore. Poor Venus! In tow as his Cupid came Metrobius.
Sulla’s biggest snake took one look and stood up in less than a second, which didn’t please the Ape or Diana of the Grove. Nor for that matter did it please Venus Scylax. And there ensued scenes as frenzied as any that ever enlivened farce or mime: a bouncing blue bottom, a bouncing bared breast, a bouncing blonde wig, a bouncing biggest snake, and a bouncing befeathered boy. Culminating in the best bounce of all, which was Metrobius and Sulla enjoying a little buggery in a corner they had fancied more secluded than it actually was.
He had known, of course, that he was making a ghastly mistake; but knowing it didn’t help in the least. From the moment he’d seen
the dye running down those silky legs and the length of the lashes round those lustrous, night-dark eyes, Sulla had been finished, rolled up, hopelessly conquered. And when he brushed his hand across the little frilly skirt the boy wore and lifted it just enough to see how beautiful and hairless and dusky-hued was the endowment beneath, there was nothing else in the world he could do save what he did do, pull the boy into a corner behind a large pouffe and have him.
Farce almost turned into tragedy. Clitumna took up a rare goblet of Alexandrian glass, broke it, and went in real earnest for Sulla’s face. Whereupon Nicopolis went for Clitumna with a wine jug, and Scylax went for Metrobius with one of his cork-soled platform sandals. Everyone else stopped partying to watch, enchanted. Luckily Sulla was not drunk enough to have lost his extraordinary physical competence, so he dealt with the lot of them briskly and harshly: gave Scylax a wallop on one lavishly painted eye that bruised it for a month, administered the sharp ends of a quiverful of arrows to Diana’s long bare legs, and turned Clitumna upside down across his knee to make her bare buttocks as black as they were blue. After which he kissed the boy a lingering tongue-borne thank-you, and took himself off to bed in a mood of towering disgust.
It was only at dawn on New Year’s Day that Sulla understood what was really the matter. Not farce. Not even comedy. A tragedy as strange and hideously convoluted as anything Sophocles ever imagined in his worst bout of despair at the antics of gods and men. Today, New Year’s Day, was Sulla’s birthday. He was exactly thirty years old.
And he turned then to look at the two brawling bawling women in the bed, no trace of his Medusa of the night before now remaining, and he looked at them with such icy anger and pain and loathing that they stilled immediately to stone, and sat incapable of moving while he dressed in a fresh white tunic and had a slave drape his toga around him, a garment he hadn’t worn in years save to the theater. Only when he had gone did the women regain power to move, and then they stared at each other and blubbered noisy tears; not for their own grief, but for his, which they didn’t even begin to understand.
*
The truth was that Lucius Cornelius Sulla, thirty today, was living a lie. Had always lived a lie. The world in which he had dwelled for thirty years—a world inhabited by drunkards and beggars, actors and whores, charlatans and freed-men—was not his world at all.
Rome was full of men bearing the family name Cornelius. But they had come to be called Cornelius because a father or a grandfather or however many generations back had once belonged, slave or peasant, to a patrician high aristocrat named Cornelius. When that patrician Cornelius emancipated them from their bondage in honor of a marriage or a birthday or a funeral, or because the purchase price of freedom had been saved up out of wages, they took his name, and so became Cornelius too. All those named Cornelius were clients of some patrician Cornelius because they owed him thanks for the citizenship which had come to them along with his name.
Excepting Clitumna and Nicopolis, the people Lucius Cornelius Sulla knew automatically assumed he was just such a Cornelius, the son or grandson or however many generations back of a Cornelian slave or peasant; with his barbaric coloring, more likely by far to be slave than peasant. After all, there were patrician noblemen called Cornelius Scipio and Cornelius Lentulus and Cornelius Merula, but who ever heard of a patrician Cornelius Sulla? No one even knew what the word “Sulla” meant!
But the truth was that Lucius Cornelius Sulla, enrolled by the censors according to his means among the capite censi, the Head Count masses of Rome owning absolutely no property, was a patrician nobleman, the son of a patrician nobleman, the grandson of a patrician nobleman, and so on through every generation going back to the days before the founding of Rome. His birth made Sulla eminently eligible for the full glory of the political ladder, the cursus honorum. By birth, the consulship was his.
His tragedy lay in his penuriousness, the inability of his father to provide either the income or the property necessary to enroll his son among even the lowest of the five economic classes; all his father had bequeathed him was the raw and simple citizenship itself. Not for Lucius Cornelius Sulla the purple stripe on the right shoulder of his tunic, knight-narrow or senator-broad. There were those who knew him had heard him say his tribe was the Cornelia, and laughed him to scorn. Assuming he was of slave origins, they knew his tribe had to be either urban Esquilina or urban Suburana. For rural Cornelia was one of the four oldest of the thirty-five Roman tribes, and did not number members of the Head Count among it.
On this thirtieth birthday Sulla should have been entering the Senate—either as an elected quaestor approved by the censors, or else as his birthright, appointed by the censors without their requiring him to be elected quaestor.
Instead, he was the kept plaything of two vulgar women, and there was not a single hope in the world that he would ever command the sort of fortune which would enable him to exercise his birthright. Next year was a censors’ year— oh, to be able to present himself at the censors’ tribunal in the Forum Romanum and show the censors proof that he had property yielding him an income of a million sesterces a year! That was the senator’s minimum. Or even property yielding an income of four hundred thousand sesterces a year! That was the knight’s minimum. As things stood in reality, he owned no property at all, and his income had never exceeded ten thousand sesterces in a year, even now he was kept by women. The definition of abject poverty in Rome was the inability to own one slave, and that meant that there had been times in his life when Sulla was abjectly poor. He, a patrician Cornelius.
During those two years of brave defiance when he had lived in the insula up the Esquiline near the Agger, he had been forced to seek work on the wharves of the Port of Rome below the Wooden Bridge, had humped jars of wine and emptied urns of wheat in order to keep that one slave who indicated to the world that he was not abjectly poor. For as he grew older, so did his pride increase—or rather, his consciousness of its utter humiliation. He had never succumbed to the urge to get a steady job, learn a trade in some foundry or carpenter’s shop, or become a scribe, act as a merchant’s secretary, or copy manuscripts for a publishing house or lending library. When a man labored on the wharves or in the market gardens or on some construction project, no one asked questions; when a man went to the same place of work each day, everyone asked questions. Sulla could not even enlist in the army—a man had to be propertied for that too. Entitled by his birth to lead an army, Sulla had never handled a sword, straddled a horse, or cast a spear, even on the training fields and exercise yards around the Villa Publica on the Campus Martius. He, a patrician Cornelius.
Perhaps had he gone to some remote patrician Cornelian relation and begged, the situation might have been remedied by the tendering of a massive loan. But pride—which could stomach being kept by vulgar women—balked at begging. For there were no patrician Cornelians of the Sullan branch left, only distant Cornelians indifferent to his plight. Better to be a nobody and owe nobody than a somebody groaning under the cliental obligations of a massive loan. He, a patrician Cornelius.
*
The Exactly where he intended to go when he flung out of the door of his stepmother’s house, he had no idea. Only to snuff the damp air, walk off his anguish. Clitumna had chosen an odd place to live, given her background: in a street of successful advocates and backbencher senators and middle-income knights, too low down on the Palatine Germalus to afford a view, yet conveniently close to the political and business hub of the city, the Forum Romanum and its surrounding basilicae and marketplaces and colonnades. Of course Clitumna liked the safety of this location, far from the stews of the Subura with its concomitant crime, but her noisy parties and dubious friends had led to many an irate deputation from her neighbors, who preferred peace and quiet. On one side of her was the exceedingly prosperous merchant banker and company director Titus Pomponius, and. on the other side lived Gaius Julius Caesar, a senator.
Not that they saw much of each other. That was one
of the benefits (or drawbacks, viewed conversely) of inward-looking houses, with their windowless outer walls and a central court—the peristyle-garden—shielded from the neighbors by the rooms entirely surrounding it. But there was no doubt that when Clitumna’s parties spilled out of her dining room into the open court of the peristyle-garden, the cacophony penetrated far beyond the boundaries of her property, and made her the chief district nuisance.
Dawn had broken. Ahead of him Sulla could see Gaius Julius Caesar’s women tittupping along on the high cork soles and higher cork heels of their winter shoes, sweet little feet elevated above the water in the middens. Going to watch the inauguration ceremony, he supposed, slowing his pace and regarding their closely wrapped forms with the unself-conscious appreciation of a man whose sexual urges were powerful and all-pervading. The wife was a Marcia, daughter of the builder of the Aqua Marcia, and not much above forty. Well, forty-five. Still slim and well cared for, tall, a brown lady with more than her share of good looks. Yet she couldn’t rival her daughters. They were true Julias, blonde beauties both, though for Sulla’s money it was the younger one took the laurels. For he had seen them from time to time going off to the market to shop with their eyes; their purses, as well he knew, were slender as their bodies. That was a family kept itself senatorial only by the skin of its teeth. The knight Titus Pomponius, Clitumna’s neighbor on the other side, was more affluent by far.
Money. It ruled the world. Without it, a man was nothing. Little wonder then that when a man levered himself into any position where he could snatch at the chance to enrich himself, he always, always did. For a man to enrich himself through the medium of politics, he had to secure election as a praetor; his fortune was made in that moment, the years of outlay finally paid dividends. For the praetor went to govern a province, and there he was a god, he could help himself. If possible, he fought a little war against some barbarian tribe on the borders, took their gold and their sacred treasures, sold the captives of his sword into slavery, and pocketed the proceeds. But if the war prospects were dismal, there were other avenues: he could deal in grain and various staple commodities, he could lend money at exorbitant rates of interest (and use his army to collect the debt if necessary), he could doctor the account books when the taxes were gathered, he could dole out Roman citizenships for a price, he could accept illicit fees for everything from issuing government contracts to exempting some local city from its tribute to Rome.