“They do,” Julia said, hiding her consternation. He was looking worn these days, older than his years instead of younger, and he was putting on weight for the first time in his life—all that sitting around in meetings rather than striding around in the open air—and his hair was suddenly greying and thinning. Warmaking was clearly more beneficial to a man’s body than lawmaking. “Gaius Marius, make an end to it and tell me!” she insisted.
“This second bill contains an additional clause Glaucia invented specially for it,” said Marius, beginning to pace again, his words tumbling out. “An oath to uphold the law in perpetuity is demanded from every senator within five days of the bill’s passing into law.”
She couldn’t help herself; Julia gasped, lifted her hands to her cheeks; looked at Marius in dismay, and said the strongest word her vocabulary contained, “Ecastor!”
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Gaius Marius, Gaius Marius, they’ll never forgive you if you include it in the bill!”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he cried, hands reaching like claws for the ceiling. “But what else can I do? I’ve got to have this land!”
She licked her lips. “You’ll be in the House for many years to come,” she said. “Can’t you just go on fighting to see the law upheld?”
“Go on fighting? When do I ever stop?” he asked. “I’m tired of fighting, Julia!”
She blew a bubble of derision aimed at jollying him. “Oh, pooh! Gaius Marius tired of fighting? You’ve been fighting all your life!”
“But not the same kind of fighting as now,” he tried to explain. “This is dirty. There are no rules. And you don’t even know who—let alone where!—your enemies are. Give me a battlefield for an arena anytime! At least what happens on it is quick and clean—and the best man usually wins. But the Senate of Rome is a brothel stuffed with the lowest forms of life and the lowest forms of conduct. I spend my days crawling in its slime! Well, Julia, let me tell you, I’d rather bathe in battlefield blood! And if anyone is naive enough to think that political intrigue doesn’t ruin more lives than any war, then he deserves everything politics will dish out to him!”
Julia got up and went to him, forced him to stop the pacing, and took both his hands. “I hate to say it, my dear love, but the political forum isn’t the right arena for a man as direct as you.”
“If I didn’t know it until now, I certainly do know that now,” he said gloomily. “I suppose it will have to be Glaucia’s wretched special-oath clause. But as Publius Rutilius keeps asking me, where are all these new-style laws going to lead us? Are we really replacing bad with good? Or are we merely replacing bad with worse?”
“Only time will tell,” she said calmly. “Whatever else happens, Gaius Marius, never forget that there are always huge crises in government, that people are always going around proclaiming in tones of horror that this or that new law will mean the end of the Republic, that Rome isn’t Rome any more—I know from my reading that Scipio Africanus was saying it of Cato the Censor! And probably some early Julius Caesar was saying it of Brutus when he killed his sons in the beginning of things. The Republic is indestructible, and they all know it, even as they’re yelling it’s doomed. So don’t you lose sight of that fact.”
Her good sense was placating him at last; Julia noted in satisfaction that the red tinge was dying out of his eyes, and his skin was losing its mottled choler. Time to change the subject a little, she decided.
“By the way, my brother Gaius Julius would like to see you tomorrow, so I’ve taken the opportunity to invite him and Aurelia to dinner, if that’s acceptable.”
Marius groaned. “Of course! That’s right! I’d forgotten! He’s off to Cercina to settle my first colony of veterans there, isn’t he?” Down went his head into his hands, snatched from Julia’s clasp. “Isn’t he? Ye gods, my memory! What’s happening to me, Julia?”
“Nothing,” she soothed. “You need a respite, preferably a few weeks away from Rome. But since that’s clearly not possible, why don’t we go together to find Young Marius?”
That extremely handsome little man, not quite nine years old, was a very satisfactory son: tall, sturdily built, blond, and Roman-nosed enough to please his father. If the lad’s leanings were more toward the physical than the intellectual, that too pleased Marius. The fact that he was still an only child grieved his mother more than it did his father, for Julia had not succeeded in either of the two pregnancies which had followed the death of his younger brother, and she was now beginning to fear that she was incapable of carrying another child to its full term. However, Marius was content with his one son, and refused to believe that there should be another basket in which to pile some of his eggs.
*
The dinner party was a great success, its guest list limited to Gaius Julius Caesar; his wife, Aurelia; and Aurelia’s uncle, Publius Rutilius Rufus.
Caesar was leaving for African Cercina at the end of the eight-day market interval; the commission had delighted him, only one disadvantage marring his pleasure.
“I won’t be in Rome for the birth of my first son,” he said with a smile.
“Aurelia, no! Again?” asked Rutilius Rufus, groaning. “It’ll be another girl, you wait and see—and where will the pair of you find another dowry?”
“Pooh, Uncle Publius!” said the unrepentant Aurelia, popping a morsel of chicken into her mouth. “First of all, we shan’t need dowries for our girls. Gaius Julius’s father made us promise that we wouldn’t be stiff-necked Caesars and keep our girls free of the taint of plutocracy. So we fully intend to marry them to terribly rich rural nobodies.” More chicken morsels suffered the same fate as the first. “And we’ve had our two girls. Now we’re going to have boys.”
“All at once?” asked Rutilius Rufus, eyes twinkling.
“Oh, I say, twins would be nice! Do they run in the Julii?” asked the intrepid mother of her sister-in-law.
“I think they do,” said Julia, frowning. “Certainly our Uncle Sextus had twins, though one died—Caesar Strabo is a twin, isn’t he?”
“Correct, he is,” said Rutilius Rufus with a grin. “Our poor young cross-eyed friend positively drips extra names, and ‘Vopiscus’ is one of them, which means he’s the survivor of twins. But he’s got a new nickname, I hear.”
The wicked note of gloat in his voice alerted everyone; Marius voiced the query. “What?”
“He’s developed a fistula in the nether regions, so some wit said he had an arsehole and a half, and started calling him Sesquiculus,” said Rutilius Rufus.
The entire dinner party collapsed into laughter, including the women, permitted to share this mild obscenity.
“Twins might run in Lucius Cornelius’s family too,” said Marius, wiping his eyes.
“What makes you say that?” asked Rutilius Rufus, sensing another snippet of gossip.
“Well, as you all know—though Rome doesn’t—he lived among the Cimbri for a year. Had a wife—a Cherusci woman named Hermana. And she threw twin boys.”
Julia’s mirth faded. “Captured? Dead?” she asked.
“Edepol, no! He took her back to her own people in Germania before he rejoined me.”
“Funny sort of chap, Lucius Cornelius,” said Rutilius Rufus reflectively. “Not quite right in the head.”
“There you’re wrong for once, Publius Rutilius,” said Marius. “No man’s head was ever better attached to his shoulders than Lucius Cornelius’s. In fact, I’d say he was the man of the future as far as Rome’s concerned.”
Julia giggled. “He positively bolted back to Italian Gaul after the triumph,” she said. “He and Mother fight more and more as time goes on.”
“Well,” said Marius bravely, “that’s understandable! Your mother is the one person on this patch of earth who can frighten the life out of me.”
“Lovely woman, Marcia,” said Rutilius Rufus reminiscently, then added hastily when all eyes turned on him, “At least to look at. In the old days.”
“She’s certainly made herself very busy finding Lucius Cornelius a new wife,” said Caesar.
Rutilius Rufus nearly choked on a prune pip. “Well, I happened to be at Marcus Aemilius Scaurus’s for dinner a few days ago,” he said in a wickedly pleasurable voice, “and if she wasn’t already another man’s wife, I’d have been willing to bet Lucius Cornelius would have found a wife all by himself.”
“No!” said Aurelia, leaning forward on her chair. “Oh, Uncle Publius, do tell!”
“Little Caecilia Metella Dalmatica, if you please,” said Rutilius Rufus.
“The wife of the Princeps Senatus himself?” squeaked Aurelia.
“The same. Lucius Cornelius took one look at her when she was introduced, blushed redder than his hair, and sat like a booby all through the meal just staring at her.”
“The imagination boggles,” said Marius.
“As well it might!” said Rutilius Rufus. “Even Marcus Aemilius noticed—well, he does tend to be like an old hen with one chick about his darling little Dalmatica. So she got sent off to bed at the end of the main course. Looking very disappointed. And shooting a look of shy admiration at Lucius Cornelius as she went. He spilled his wine.”
“As long as he doesn’t spill his wine in her lap,” said Marius grimly.
“Oh no, not another scandal!” cried Julia. “Lucius Cornelius just can’t afford another scandal. Gaius Marius, can you drop him a hint?”
Marius produced that look of discomfort husbands do when their wives demand some utterly unmasculine and uncharacteristic task of them. “Certainly not!”
“Why?” asked Julia, to whom her request was sensible.
“Because a man’s private life is his own lookout—and a lot he’d thank me for sticking my nose in!”
Julia and Aurelia both looked disappointed.
The peacemaker as always, Caesar cleared his throat. “Well, since Marcus Aemilius Scaurus looks as if he’ll have to be killed with an axe in about a thousand years’ time, I don’t think we need to worry very much about Lucius Cornelius and Dalmatica. I believe Mother has made her choice—and I hear Lucius Cornelius approves, so we’ll all be getting wedding invitations as soon as he comes back from Italian Gaul.”
“Who?” asked Rutilius Rufus. “I haven’t heard a whisper!”
“Aelia, the only daughter of Quintus Aelius Tubero.”
“A bit long in the tooth, isn’t she?” asked Marius.
“Late thirties, the same age as Lucius Cornelius,” said Caesar comfortably. “He doesn’t want more children, it seems, so Mother felt a widow without children was ideal. She’s a handsome enough lady.”
“From a fine old family,” said Rutilius Rufus. “Rich!”
“Then good for Lucius Cornelius!” said Aurelia warmly. “I can’t help it, I like him!”
“So do we all,” said Marius, winking at her. “Gaius Julius, this professed admiration doesn’t make you jealous?”
“Oh, I have more serious rivals for Aurelia’s affections than mere patrician legates,” said Caesar, grinning.
Julia looked up. “Really? Who?”
“His name is Lucius Decumius, and he’s a grubby little man of about forty with skinny legs, greasy hair, and an all-over reek of garlic,” said Caesar, picking at the dish of dried fruits in search of the plumpest raisin. “My house is perpetually filled with magnificent vases of flowers—in season, out of season, makes no difference to Lucius Decumius, who sends a new lot round every four or five days. And visits my wife, if you please, smarming up to her in the most nauseating way. In fact, he’s so pleased about our coming child that I sometimes have deep misgivings.”
“Stop it, Gaius Julius!” said Aurelia, laughing.
“Who is he?” asked Rutilius Rufus.
“The caretaker or whatever he’s called of the crossroads college Aurelia is obliged to house rent-free,” said Caesar.
“Lucius Decumius and I have an understanding,” Aurelia said, filching the raisin Caesar was holding halfway to his mouth.
“What understanding?” asked Rutilius Rufus.
“Whereabouts he plies his trade, namely anywhere but in my vicinity.”
“What trade?”
“He’s an assassin,” said Aurelia.
*
When Saturninus introduced his second agrarian law, the clause stipulating an oath burst upon the Forum like a clap of thunder; not a bolt of Jovian lightning, rather the cataclysmic rumble of the old gods, the real gods, the faceless gods, the numina. Not only was an oath required of every senator, but instead of the customary swearing in the temple of Saturn, Saturninus’s law required that the oath be taken under the open sky in the roofless temple of Semo Sancus Dius Fidius on the lower Quirinal, where the faceless god without a mythology had only a statue of Gaia Caecilia— wife of King Tarquinius Priscus of old Rome—to humanize his dwelling. And the deities in whose name the oath was taken were not the grand deities of the Capitol, but the little faceless numina who were truly Roman—the Di Penates Publici, guardians of the public purse and larder—the Lares Praestites, guardians of the State—and Vesta, guardian of the hearth. No one knew what they looked like, or where they came from, or even what sex if any they actually possessed; they just—were. And they mattered. They were Roman. They were the public images of the most private gods, the deities who ruled the family, that most sacred of all Roman traditions. No Roman could swear by these deities and contemplate breaking his oath, for to do so would be to bring down ruin and disaster and disintegration upon his family, his home, his purse.
But the legalistic mind of Glaucia hadn’t merely trusted to nameless fear of nameless numina; to drive the point of the oath home, Saturninus’s law even dealt with any senator who might refuse to take the oath; he would be forbidden fire and water within Italy, and fined the sum of twenty silver talents, and stripped of his citizenship.
“The trouble is, we haven’t gone far enough fast enough yet,” said Metellus Numidicus to Catulus Caesar, Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus, Metellus Piglet, Scaurus, Lucius Cotta, and his uncle Marcus Cotta. ‘ ‘The People aren’t ready to reject Gaius Marius—they’ll pass this into law. And we will be required to swear.” He shivered. “And if I swear, I must uphold my oath.”
“Then it cannot be passed into law,” said Ahenobarbus.
“There’s not one tribune of the plebs with the courage to veto it,” said Marcus Cotta.
“Then we must fight it with religion,” said Scaurus, looking at Ahenobarbus meaningfully. “The other side has brought religion into things, so there’s no reason why we can’t too.”
“I think I know what you want,” said Ahenobarbus.
“Well, I don’t,” said Lucius Cotta.
“When the day for voting the bill into law comes and the augurs inspect the omens to ensure the meeting is not in contravention of divine law, we’ll make sure the omens are inauspicious,” said Ahenobarbus. “And we’ll go on finding the omens inauspicious, until one of our tribunes of the plebs finds the courage to interpose his veto on religious grounds. That will kill the law, because the People get tired of things very quickly.”
The plan was put into practice; the omens were declared inauspicious by the augurs. Unfortunately Lucius Appuleius Saturninus himself was also an augur—a small reward given him at the instigation of Scaurus at the time when Scaurus restored his reputation—and differed in his interpretation of the omens.
“It’s a trick!” he shouted to the Plebs standing in the well of the Comitia. “Look at them, all minions of the Senate Policy Makers! There’s nothing wrong with the omens— this is a way to break the power of the People! We all know Scaurus Princeps Senatus and Metellus Numidicus and Catulus will go to any lengths to deprive our soldiers of their just reward—and this proves they have gone to any lengths! They’ve deliberately tampered with the will of the gods!”
The People believed Saturninus, who had taken the precaution of inserting his gladiators into the crowd. When
one of the other tribunes of the plebs attempted to interpose his veto on the grounds that the omens were inauspicious, that he had heard thunder besides, and that any law passed that day would be nefas, sacrilegious, Saturninus’s gladiators acted. While Saturninus declared in ringing tones that he would not allow the veto, his bully-boys plucked the hapless tribune from the rostra and ran him up the Clivus Argentarius to the cells of the Lautumiae and kept him there until the meeting broke up. The second land bill was put to the vote, and the People in their tribes passed it into law, for its oath clause made it novel enough to intrigue the habitual attenders in the Plebeian Assembly; what would happen if it became law, who would resist, how would the Senate react? Too good to miss! The mood of the People was one of let’s find out.
The day after the bill became law, Metellus Numidicus rose to his feet in the Senate, and announced with great dignity that he would not take the oath.
“My conscience, my principles, my very life itself depend upon this decision!” he roared. “I will pay the fine and I will go into exile on Rhodes. For I will not swear. Do you hear me, Conscript Fathers? I—will—not—swear! I cannot swear to uphold anything to which the very core of my being is adamantly opposed. When is forsworn forsworn? Which is the more grievous crime—to swear to uphold a law I set myself against, or not to swear? You may all of you answer that for yourselves. My answer is that the greater crime is to swear. So I say to you, Lucius Appuleius Saturninus, and I say to you, Gaius Marius— I—will—not—swear! I choose to pay the fine and I choose to go into exile.”
His stand made a profound impression, for everyone present knew he meant what he said. Marius’s eyebrows grew still, meeting across his nose, and Saturninus pulled his lips back from his teeth. The murmurings began; the doubts and discontents niggled, gnawed, amplified.
“They’re going to be difficult,” whispered Glaucia from his curule chair, close to Marius’s.