A shadow crossed Marius’s face, then was resolutely wiped away. “I thank you, Lucius Cornelius. There’s time to make more children, and I have Young Marius. You left my wife and Young Marius well?”
“Very well. As are all the Julius Caesars.”
“Good!” Private considerations were shelved; Marius put his mail on a side table and moved to his desk, where a huge map painted on specially treated calfskin was spread out. “You’re just in time to sample Numidia at first hand. We’re off to Capsa in eight days’ time.” The keen brown eyes searched Sulla’s face, peeling and splotchy. “I suggest, Lucius Cornelius, that you explore the Utican marketplaces until you find a really strong hat with as wide a brim as possible. It’s obvious you’ve been out and around in Italy all summer. But the sun of Numidia is even hotter and harsher. You’ll burn like tinder here.”
It was true; Sulla’s flawless white complexion, hitherto sheltered by a life lived largely indoors, had suffered during his months of traveling throughout Italy, exercising troops, and learning himself as surreptitiously as possible. Pride had not permitted him to skulk in the shade while others braved the light, and pride had dictated that he wear the Attic helmet of his high estate, headgear which did nothing to save his skin. The worst of the sunburn was now over, but so little pigment did he possess that there was no deepening of his color, and the healed and healing areas were as white as ever. His arms had fared better than his face; it was possible that after sufficient exposure, arms and legs would manage to survive assault by the sun. But his face? Never.
Some of this did Marius sense as he watched Sulla’s reaction to his suggestion of a hat; he sat down and pointed to the tray of wine. “Lucius Cornelius, I have been laughed at for one thing or another since I first entered the legions at seventeen. At first I was too scrawny and undersized, then I was too big and clumsy. I had no Greek. I was an Italian, not a Roman. So I understand the humiliation you feel because you have a soft white skin. But it is more important to me, your commanding officer, that you maintain good health and bodily comfort, than that you present what you consider the proper image to your peers. Get yourself that hat! Keep it tied on with a woman’s scarf, or ribbons, or a gold-and-purple cord if such is all you can find. And laugh at them! Cultivate it as an eccentricity. And soon, you’ll find, no one even notices it anymore. Also, I recommend that you find some sort of ointment or cream thick enough to lessen the amount of sun your skin drinks up, and smear it on. And if the right one stinks of perfume, what of it?”
Sulla nodded, grinned. “You’re right, and it’s excellent advice. I’ll do as you say, Gaius Marius.”
“Good.”
A silence fell; Marius was edgy, restless, but not for any reason connected with Sulla, his quaestor understood. And all of a sudden Sulla knew what the reason was—hadn’t he labored under the same feeling himself? Wasn’t all of Rome laboring under it?
“The Germans,” Sulla said.
“The Germans,” Marius said, and reached out a hand to pick up his beaker of well-watered wine. “Where have they come from, Lucius Cornelius, and where are they going?”
Sulla shivered. “They’re going to Rome, Gaius Marius. That is what we all feel in our bones. Where they come from, we don’t know. A manifestation of Nemesis, perhaps. All we know is that they have no home. What we fear is that they intend to make our home theirs.”
“They’d be fools if they didn’t,” said Marius somberly. “These forays into Gaul are tentative, Lucius Cornelius— they’re simply biding their time, gathering up their courage. Barbarians they may be, but even the least barbarian knows that if he wants to settle anywhere near the Middle Sea, he must first deal with Rome. The Germans will come.”
“I agree. But you and I are not alone. That’s the feeling from one end of Rome to the other these days. A ghastly worry, a worse fear of the inevitable. And our defeats don’t help,” said Sulla. “Everything conspires to help the Germans. There are those, even in the Senate, who walk round speaking of our doom as if it had already happened. There are those who speak of the Germans as a divine judgment.’’
Marius sighed. “Not a judgment. A test.” He put down his beaker and folded his hands. “Tell me what you know about Lucius Cassius. The official dispatches give me nothing to think about, they’re so rarefied.”
Sulla grimaced. “Well, he took the six legions which came back from Africa with Metellus—how do you like the ‘Numidicus,’ by the way?—and he marched them all the way down the Via Domitia to Narbo, which it seems he reached about the beginning of Quinctilis, after eight weeks on the road. They were fit troops, and could have moved faster, but no one blames Lucius Cassius for going easy on them at the start of what promised to be a hard campaign. Thanks to Metellus Numidicus’s determination not to leave a single man behind in Africa, all Cassius’s legions were over strength by two cohorts, which meant he had close to forty thousand infantrymen, plus a big cavalry unit he augmented with tame Gauls along the way—about three thousand altogether. A big army.”
Marius grunted. “They were good men.” .
“I know. I saw them, as a matter of fact, while they were marching up through the Padus Valley to the Mons Genava Pass. I was recruiting cavalry at the time. And though you may find this hard to believe, Gaius Marius, I had never before seen a Roman army on the march, rank after rank after rank, all properly armed and equipped, and with a decent baggage train. I’ll never forget the sight of them!” He sighed. “Anyway... the Germans it seems had come to an understanding with the Volcae Tectosages, who claim to be their kinsmen, and had given them land to the north and east of Tolosa.”
“I admit the Gauls are almost as mysterious as the Germans, Lucius Cornelius,” said Marius, leaning forward, “but according to the reports, Gauls and Germans are not of the same race. How could the Volcae Tectosages call the Germans kinsmen? After all, the Volcae Tectosages aren’t even long-haired Gauls—they’ve been living around Tolosa since before we’ve had Spain, and they speak Greek, and they trade with us. So why?”
“I don’t know. Nor it seems does anyone,” said Sulla.
“I’m sorry, Lucius Cornelius, I interrupted. Continue.”
“Lucius Cassius marched up from the coast at Narbo along our decent road Gnaeus Domitius made, and got his army into final fighting trim on good ground not far from Tolosa itself. The Volcae Tectosages had allied themselves completely with the Germans, so we faced a mighty force. However, Lucius Cassius brought them to battle in the right place, and beat them soundly. Typical barbarians, they didn’t linger in the vicinity once they lost. Germans and Gauls alike ran for their lives away from Tolosa and our army.”
He paused, frowning, sipped more wine, put the beaker down. “I had this from Popillius Laenas himself, actually. They brought him across from Narbo by sea just before I sailed.”
“Poor wretch, he’ll be the Senate’s scapegoat,” said Marius.
“Of course,” said Sulla, lifting his ginger brows.
“The dispatches say Cassius followed the fleeing barbarians,” Marius prompted.
Sulla nodded. “Quite right, he did. They’d gone down both banks of the Garumna toward the ocean—when Cassius saw them leave Tolosa, they were in complete disorder, as one would expect. I daresay he despised them as simple, rather oafish barbarians, because he didn’t even bother to deploy our army in proper formation when he gave chase.”
“He didn’t put his legions into a defensive marching order?” asked Marius incredulously.
“No. He treated the pursuit like an ordinary route march, and took every bit of his baggage with him, including all the plunder he’d picked up when the Germans fled, leaving their wagons behind. As you know, our Roman-made road stops at Tolosa, so progress down the Garumna into alien territory was slow, and Cassius was mainly concerned that the baggage train be adequately protected.”
“Why didn’t he leave the baggage in Tolosa?”
Sulla shrugged. “Apparently he didn’
t trust what Volcae Tectosages remained behind in Tolosa. Anyway, by the time he’d penetrated down the Garumna as far as Burdigala, the Germans and the Gauls had had at least fifteen days to recover from their trouncing. They went to earth inside Burdigala, which is, it seems, far larger than the usual Gallic oppidum, and heavily fortified, not to mention stuffed with armaments. The local tribesmen didn’t want a Roman army in their lands, so they helped the Germans and the Gauls in every way they could, from contributing more troops to offering them Burdigala. And then they set a very clever ambush for Lucius Cassius.”
“The fool!” said Marius.
“Our army had camped not far to the east of Burdigala, and when Cassius decided to move on to attack the oppidum itself, he left the baggage train behind in the camp, under a guard of about half a legion—sorry, I mean five cohorts— one of these days I’ll get the terminology right!”
Marius found a smile. “You will, Lucius Cornelius, I guarantee it. But continue.”
“It seems Cassius was supremely confident he would encounter no organized resistance, so he marched our army toward Burdigala without even tightening ranks, or making the men march in square, or even sending out scouts. Our whole army fell into a perfect trap, and the Germans and the Gauls literally annihilated us. Cassius himself fell on the field—so did his senior legate. All told, Popillius Laenas estimates thirty-five thousand Roman soldiers died at Burdigala,” said Sulla.
“Popillius Laenas himself had been left in command of the baggage train and camp, I understand?” asked Marius.
“That’s right. He heard the racket from the battlefield, of course, it drifted downwind for miles, and he was downwind of it. But the first he knew of the disaster was when no more than a handful of our men appeared, running for their lives to shelter in the camp. And though he waited and waited, no more of our men ever came. Instead, the Germans and the Gauls arrived. He says there were thousands upon thousands upon thousands of them, milling around the camp as thick as a plague of mice on a threshing floor. The ground was one mass of moving barbarians in a victory frenzy, lifted out of themselves, brandishing Roman heads on their spears and screaming war chants, all of them giants, their hair standing up stiff with clay, or hanging in great yellow braids down over their shoulders. A terrifying sight, Laenas said.”
“And one we’re going to see a lot more of in the future, Lucius Cornelius,” said Marius grimly. “Go on.”
“It’s true that Laenas could have resisted them. But for what? It seemed more sensible to him to save his pitiful remnant of our army, for our future use if possible. So that’s what he did. He ran up the white flag and walked out himself to meet their chieftains, with his spear reversed and his scabbards empty. And they spared him, and they spared all of our surviving men. Then to show us what a greedy lot they thought we were, they even left us the baggage train! All they took from it were their own treasures which Cassius had looted.” He drew a breath. “However, they did make Popillius Laenas and the rest pass under the yoke. After which they escorted them as far as Tolosa, and made sure they went on to Narbo.”
“We’ve passed under the yoke too often of late years,” said Marius, clenching his fists.
“Well, that is the chief reason for the general fury of indignation in Rome against Popillius Laenas, certainly,” said Sulla. “He’ll face treason charges, but from what he was saying to me, I doubt he’ll stay to be tried. I think he plans to get together what portable valuables he has, and go into a voluntary exile at once.”
“It’s the sensible move, at least he’ll salvage something out of his ruin that way. If he waits to be tried, the State will confiscate the lot.” Marius thumped the map. “But the fate of Lucius Cassius is not going to be our fate, Lucius Cornelius! By fair means or foul, we’re going to rub Jugurtha’s face in the mud—and then we’re going home to demand a mandate from the People to fight the Germans!”
“Now that, Gaius Marius, is something I’ll drink to!” said Sulla, lifting his beaker.
*
The expedition against Capsa was successful beyond all expectations, but—as everyone admitted—only thanks to Marius’s brilliant management of the campaign. His legate Aulus Manlius, whose cavalry Marius didn’t quite trust, because among its ranks were some Numidians claiming they were Rome’s and Gauda’s men, tricked his cavalry into thinking that Marius was on a foraging expedition. So what news Jugurtha got was completely misleading.
Thus when Marius appeared with his army before Capsa, the King thought him still a hundred miles away; no one had reported to Jugurtha that the Romans had stocked up on water and grain in order to cross the arid wastelands between the Bagradas River and Capsa. When the ostensibly impregnable fortress found itself looking down on a sea of Roman helmets, its inhabitants surrendered it without a fight. But once again Jugurtha managed to escape.
Time to teach Numidia—and especially the Gaetuli—a lesson, decided Gaius Marius. So in spite of the fact that Capsa had offered him no resistance, he gave his soldiers permission to loot it, rape it, and burn it; every adult, male and female, was put to the sword. Its treasures, and Jugurtha’s huge hoard of money, were loaded into wagons; Marius then brought his army safely out of Numidia into winter quarters near Utica, well before the rains began.
His Head Count troops had earned their rest. And it gave him intense pleasure to write a dulcet letter to the Senate (to be read out by Gaius Julius Caesar) lauding the spirit, courage, and morale of his Head Count army; nor could he resist adding that after the appallingly bad generalship of Lucius Cassius Longinus, his senior colleague in the consulship, it was certain Rome would need more armies made up of the capite censi.
Said Publius Rutilius Rufus in a letter to Gaius Marius toward the end of the year:
Oh, so many red faces! Your father-in-law roared your message out in impressively stentorian tones, so that even those who covered their ears were still obliged to listen. Metellus Piggle-wiggle—also known as Metellus Numidicus these days—looked murderous. As well he might—his old army dead along the Garumna, and your raggle-taggle crew heroes of the living kind. “There is no justice!” he was heard to say afterward, whereupon I turned round and said, very sweetly, “That is true, Quintus Caecilius. For if justice did exist, you wouldn’t be calling yourself Numidicus!” He was not amused, but Scaurus fell about laughing, of course. Say what you will about Scaurus, he has the keenest sense of humor, not to mention sense of the ridiculous, of any man I know. Since this is not something I can say of any of his cronies, I sometimes wonder if he doesn’t choose his cronies so he can laugh at their posturing in secret.
What amazes me, Gaius Marius, is the strength of your fortunate star. I know you weren’t worried, but I can tell you now that I didn’t think you stood a chance of having your command in Africa prorogued for next year. Then what happens? Lucius Cassius gets himself killed, along with Rome’s biggest and most experienced army, leaving the Senate and its controlling faction helpless to oppose you. Your tribune of the plebs, Mancinus, went to the Assembly of the Plebs and procured you a plebiscite extending your governorship of Africa Province without any trouble at all. The Senate lay silent, it being too apparent, even to them, that you are going to be needed. For Rome is a very uneasy place these days. The threat of the Germans hangs over it like a pall of doom, and there are many who say no man is going to arise capable of averting that doom. Where are the Scipio Africanuses, the Aemilius Paulluses, the Scipio Aemilianuses? they ask. But you have a loyal band of devoted followers, Gaius Marius, and since the death of Cassius they are saying, louder and louder, that you are that man who will arise and turn back the German tide. Among them is the accused legate from Burdigala, Gaius Popillius Laenas.
Since you are a backward Italian hayseed with no Greek, I shall tell you a little story.
Once upon a time, there was a very bad and nasty King of Syria named Antiochus. Now because he was not the first King of Syria to be named Antiochus, nor the greatest (his father
claimed the distinction of calling himself Antiochus the Great), he had a number after his name. He was Antiochus IV, the fourth King Antiochus of Syria. Even though Syria was a rich kingdom, King Antiochus IV lusted after the neighboring kingdom of Egypt, where his cousins Ptolemy Philometor, Ptolemy Euergetes Gross Belly, and Cleopatra (being the second Cleopatra, she had a number after her name also, and was known as Cleopatra II) ruled together. I wish I could say they ruled in happy harmony, but they did not. Brothers and sister, husband and wife (yes, in Oriental kingdoms incest is quite permissible), they had been fighting between themselves for years, and had almost succeeded in ruining the fair and fertile land of the great river Nilus. So when King Antiochus IV of Syria decided to conquer Egypt, he thought he would have a very easy time of it thanks to the squabbles of his cousins the two Ptolemies and Cleopatra II.
But, alas, the minute he turned his back on Syria, a few unpleasantly seditious incidents compelled him to turn around and go home again to chop off a few heads, dismember a few bodies, pull a few teeth, and probably tear out someone’s womb. And it was four years before sufficient heads, arms, legs, teeth, and wombs were plucked from their owners, and King Antiochus IV could start out a second time to conquer Egypt. This time, Syria in his absence remained very quiet and obedient, so King Antiochus IV invaded Egypt, captured Pelusium, marched down the Delta to Memphis, captured that, and began to march up the other side of the Delta toward Alexandria.
Having ruined the country and the army, the brothers Ptolemy and their sister-wife, Cleopatra II, had no choice but to appeal to Rome for help against King Antiochus IV, Rome being the best and greatest of all nations, and everyone’s hero. To the rescue of Egypt, the Senate and People of Rome (being in better accord in those days than we would believe possible now— or so the storybooks say) sent their noble brave consular Gaius Popillius Laenas. Now any other country would have given its hero a whole army, but the Senate and People of Rome gave Gaius Popillius Laenas only twelve lictors and two clerks. However, because it was a foreign mission, the lictors were allowed to wear the red tunics and put the axes in their bundles of rods, so Gaius Popillius Laenas was not quite unprotected. Off they sailed in a little ship, and came to Alexandria just as King Antiochus IV was marching up the Canopic arm of the Nilus toward the great city wherein cowered the Egyptians.