The sixth law did what Sulla would have found difficult to do in the Forum; it repealed all of Sulpicius's legislation on the grounds that it had been passed per vim—with violence—and during lawfully declared feriae—religious holidays.
The last law was actually a trial process. It indicted twenty men on charges of treason. Not the new treasons of Saturninus's quaestio de maiestate, but the far older and more inflexible treason of the Centuries, perduellio. Gaius Marius, Young Marius, Publius Sulpicius Rufus, Marcus Junius Brutus the urban praetor, Publius Cornelius Cethegus, the Brothers Granii, Publius Albinovanus, Marcus Laetorius, and some twelve others were named. The Centuriate Assembly condemned them all. And perduellio carried the death sentence; exile was not enough for the Centuries. Even worse, death could be meted out at the moment of apprehension, it did not require formality.
3
From none of his friends and from none of the leaders of the Senate did Sulla encounter I" opposition—except, that is, from the junior consul. Quintus Pompeius Rufus just kept getting more and more depressed, and ended in saying flatly that he could not countenance the execution of men like Gaius Marius and Publius Sulpicius.
Knowing that he had no intention of executing Marius— though Sulpicius would have to go—Sulla tried at first to jolly Pompeius Rufus out of his megrims. When that didn't work, he harped upon the death of young Quintus Pompeius at the hands of Sulpicius's mob. But the harder Sulla talked, the more obstinate Pompeius Rufus became. It was vital to Sulla that no one see a rift in the concord of those in power and so busily legislating the tribal assemblies out of existence. Therefore, he decided, Pompeius Rufus would have to be removed from Rome and from the sight of those soldiers who so offended his fragile sensitivities.
One of the most fascinating changes at work within Sulla concerned this new exposure to supreme power; it was a change he recognized for what it was, and relished it, cherished it. Namely, that he was able to find more satisfaction and release from inner torment by enacting laws to ruin people than ever in the days when he had had to resort to murder. To manipulate the State into ruining Gaius Marius was infinitely more enjoyable than administering a dose of the slowest poison to Gaius Marius, better even than holding Gaius Marius's hand while he died; this new aspect of statecraft set Sulla on a different plane, shot him up into heights so rarefied and exclusive that he could feel himself looking a long way down at the frantic gyrations of his puppets, a god upon Olympus, as free from moral as from ethical restraints.
And so he set out to dispose of Quintus Pompeius Rufus in a completely new and subtle way, a way which exercised his mental faculties and spared him a great deal of anxiety. Why run the risk of getting caught murdering when it was possible to have other people murder on your behalf?
"My dear Quintus Pompeius, you need a spell in the field," said Sulla to his junior colleague with great earnestness and warmth. "It has not escaped me that ever since the death of our dear boy you've been morose, too easily upset. You've lost your ability to be detached, to see the enormity of the design we weave upon the loom of government. The smallest things cast you down! But I don't think a holiday is the answer. What you need is a spell of hard work."
The rather faded eyes rested upon Sulla's face with a huge and genuine affection; how could he not be grateful that his term as consul had allied him to one of history's outstanding men? Who could have guessed it in the days when their alliance had been formed? "I know you're right, Lucius Cornelius," he said. "Probably about everything. But it's very hard for me to reconcile myself to what has happened. And is still happening. If you feel there is some job I can do usefully, I'd be very glad to do it."
"There's one extremely important thing you can do—a job only the consul can succeed in doing," said Sulla eagerly.
"What?"
"You can relieve Pompey Strabo of his command."
An unpleasant shiver attacked the junior consul, who now looked at Sulla apprehensively. "But I don't think Pompey Strabo wants to lose his command any more than you did!"
"On the contrary, my dear Quintus Pompeius. I had a letter from him the other day. In it he asked if it could be arranged that he be relieved of his command. And he specifically asked that his relief be you. Fellow Picentine and all the rest of it—you know! His troops don't like generals who aren't Picentines," said Sulla, watching the gladness spread over the junior consul's face. "Your chief job will be to see to their discharge, actually. All resistance in the north is at an end, there's no further need for an army up there, and certainly Rome can't afford to continue paying for one." Sulla adopted a serious mien. "This is not a sinecure I'm offering you, Quintus Pompeius. I know why Pompey Strabo wants to be replaced all of a sudden. He doesn't want the odium of discharging his men. So let another Pompeius do it!"
"That I don't mind, Lucius Cornelius." Pompeius Rufus squared his shoulders. "I'd be grateful for the work."
The Senate issued a senatus consultum the next day to the effect that Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo was to be relieved of his command and replaced by Quintus Pompeius Rufus. Whereupon Quintus Pompeius Rufus left Rome immediately, secure in the knowledge that none of the condemned fugitives had yet been apprehended; he would not be contaminated by the foulness of it after all.
"You may as well act as your own courier," said Sulla, handing him the Senate's order. "Just do me one favor, Quintus Pompeius—before you give Pompey Strabo the Senate's document, give him this letter from me and ask him to read it first."
Since Pompey Strabo at that time was in Umbria in the company of his own legions and encamped outside Ariminum, the junior consul traveled on the Via Flaminia, the great north road which crossed the watershed of the Apennines between Assisium and Cales. Though it was not yet winter, the weather at those heights was freezingly cold, so Pompeius Rufus journeyed warmly inside a closed carpentum, and with sufficient luggage to fill a mule-drawn cart. As he knew he was going to a military posting, his only escorts were his lictors and a party of his own slaves. As the Via Flaminia was one of the roads home, he had no need to avail himself of hostelries along the way. He knew all the owners of large houses en route, and stayed with them.
In Assisium his host, an old acquaintance, was obliged to apologize for the standard of accommodation he offered.
"Times have changed, Quintus Pompeius!" he sighed. "I have had to sell so much! And then—as if I didn't already have too many troubles!—I am invaded by a plague of mice!"
Thus Quintus Pompeius Rufus went to bed in a room he remembered as being more richly furnished than it now was, and colder than of yore due to the pillaging of its window shutters by a passing army in need of firewood. For a long time he lay sleepless listening to the scurryings and squeakings, thinking of what was going on in Rome and full of fear because he couldn't help but feel Lucius Cornelius had gone too far. Far too far. There was going to be a reckoning. Too many generations of tribunes of the plebs had strutted up and down the Forum Romanum for the Plebs to lie down under this insult Sulla was offering them. The moment the senior consul was safely abroad all his laws would tumble. And men like himself, Quintus Pompeius Rufus, would bear the blame—and the prosecutions.
His breath clouding the icy air, he got up at dawn and sought his clothes, shivering, teeth chattering. A pair of breeches to cover himself from waist to knees, a long-sleeved warm shirt he could tuck inside the breeches, two warm tunics over the top of that; and two tubes of greasy wool, nether ends sealed, to cover his feet and his legs up to the knees.
But when he picked up his socks and sat on the edge of the bed to draw them on, he discovered that during the night the mice had eaten the richly smelly nether ends of the socks completely away. Flesh crawling, he held them up to the grey light of the unshuttered window and gazed at them sightlessly, filled with horror. For he was a superstitious Picentine, he knew what this meant. Mice were the harbingers of death, and mice had eaten off his feet. He would fall. He would die. It was a prophecy.
His
body servant found him another pair of socks and knelt to smooth them up over Pompeius Rufus's legs, alarmed at the still and voiceless effigy sitting on the edge of the bed. The man understood the omen well, prayed it was untrue.
"Domine, it is nothing to worry about," he said.
"I am going to die," said Pompeius Rufus.
"Nonsense!" said the slave heartily, helping his master to his feet. "I’m the Greek! I know more about the gods of the Underworld than any Roman! Apollo Smintheus is a god of life and light and healing, yet mice are sacred to him! No, I think the omen means you will heal the north of its troubles."
"It means I will die," said Pompeius Rufus, and from that interpretation he would not be budged.
He rode into Pompey Strabo's camp three days later more or less reconciled to his fate, and found his remote cousin living in some state in a big farmhouse.
"Well, this is a surprise!" said Pompey Strabo genially, holding out his right hand. "Come in, come in!"
"I have two letters with me," said Pompeius Rufus, sitting in a chair and accepting the best wine he had sampled since leaving Rome. He extended the little rolls of paper. "Lucius Cornelius asked if you would read his letter first. The other is from the Senate."
A change came over Pompey Strabo the moment the junior consul mentioned the Senate, but he said nothing, nor produced an expression which might have illuminated his feelings. He broke Sulla's seal.
It pains me, Gnaeus Pompeius, to be obliged by the Senate to send your cousin Rufus to you under these circumstances. No one is more appreciative than I of the many, many services you have done Rome. And no one will be more appreciative than I if you can do Rome yet one more service—-one of considerable import to all our future careers.
Our mutual colleague Quintus Pompeius is a sadly shattered man. From the moment of his son's death— my own son-in-law, and father of my two grandchildren—our poor dear friend has been suffering an alarming decline. As his presence is a grave embarrassment, it has become necessary for me to remove him. You see, he cannot find it in himself to approve of the measures I have been forced—I repeat, forced—to take in order to preserve the mos maiorum.
Now I know, Gnaeus Pompeius, that you fully approve of these measures of mine, as I have kept you properly informed and you have communicated with me regularly yourself. It is my considered opinion that the good Quintus Pompeius is in urgent and desperate need of a very long rest. It is my hope that he will find this rest with you in Umbria.
I do hope you will forgive me for my telling Quintus Pompeius about your anxiety to be rid of your command before your troops are discharged from service. It relieved his mind greatly to know that you will welcome him gladly.
Pompey Strabo laid Sulla's piece of paper down and broke the official Senate seal. What he thought as he read did not appear on his face. Finished deciphering it—like Sulla's note, he kept his voice too low and slurred for Pompeius Rufus to hear—he put it on his desk, looked at Pompeius Rufus, and smiled broadly.
"Well, Quintus Pompeius, yours is indeed a welcome presence!" he said. "It will be a pleasure to shed my duties."
Expecting rage frustration, indignation, despite Sulla's assurances, Pompeius Rufus gaped. "You mean Lucius Cornelius was right? You don't mind? Honestly?"
"Mind? Why should I mind? I am delighted," said Pompey Strabo. "My purse is feeling the pinch."
"Your purse?"
"I have ten legions in the field, Quintus Pompeius, and I'm paying more than half of them myself."
'Are you?"
"Well, Rome can't." Pompey Strabo got up from his desk. "It's time the men who aren't my own were discharged, and it's a task I don't want. I like to fight, not write things. Haven't got good enough eyesight, for one. Though I did have a cadet in my service who could write superbly. Actually loved doing it! Takes all sorts, I suppose." Pompey Strabo's arm went round Pompeius Rufus's shoulders. "Now come and meet my legates and my tribunes. All men who've served under me for a long time, so take no notice if they seem upset. I haven't told them of my intentions."
The astonishment and chagrin Pompey Strabo hadn't shown was clearly written on the faces of Brutus Damasippus and Gellius Poplicola when Pompey Strabo gave them the news.
"No, no, boys, it's excellent!" cried Pompey Strabo. "It will also do my son good to serve some other man than his father. We all get far too complacent when there are no changes in wind direction. This will freshen everybody up."
That afternoon Pompey Strabo paraded his army and permitted the new general to inspect it.
"Only four legions here—my own men," said Pompey Strabo as he accompanied Pompeius Rufus down the ranks. "The other six are all over the place, mostly mopping up or loafing. One in Camerinum, one in Fanum Fortunae, one in Ancona, one in Iguvium, one in Arretium, and one in Cingulum. You'll have quite a lot of traveling to do as you discharge them. There doesn't seem much point in bringing them all together just to give them their papers."
"I won't mind the traveling," said Pompeius Rufus, who was feeling somewhat better. Perhaps his body servant was in the right of it, perhaps the omen didn't indicate his death.
That night Pompey Strabo held a small banquet in his warm and commodious farmhouse. His very attractive young son was present, as were the other cadets, the legates Lucius Junius Brutus Damasippus and Lucius Gellius Poplicola, and four unelected military tribunes.
"Glad I'm not consul anymore and have to put up with those fellows," said Pompey Strabo, meaning the elected tribunes of the soldiers. "Heard they refused to go to Rome with Lucius Cornelius. Typical. Stupid oafs! All got inflated ideas of their importance."
"Do you really approve of the march on Rome?" asked Pompeius Rufus a little incredulously.
"Definitely. What else could Lucius Cornelius do?"
"Accept the decision of the People."
"An unconstitutional spilling of the consul's imperium? Oh, come now, Quintus Pompeius! It wasn't Lucius Cornelius acted illegally, it was the Plebeian Assembly and that traitorous cunnus Sulpicius. And Gaius Marius. Greedy old grunt. He's past it, but he hasn't even got the sense left to realize that. Why should he be allowed to act unconstitutionally without anyone's saying a word against him, while poor Lucius Cornelius stands up for the constitution and gets shit thrown at him from every direction?"
“The People never have loved Lucius Cornelius, but they most certainly don't love him now."
"Does that worry him?" asked Pompey Strabo.
"I don't think so. I also think it ought to worry him."
"Rubbish! And cheer up, cousin! You're out of it now. When they find Marius and Sulpicius and all the rest, you won't be blamed for their execution," said Pompey Strabo. "Have some more wine."
The next morning the junior consul decided to stroll about the camp, familiarize himself with its layout. The suggestion he do so had come from Pompey Strabo, who declined to keep him company.
"Better if the men see you on your own," he said.
Still astonished at the warmth of his reception, Pompeius Rufus walked wherever he liked, finding himself greeted by everyone from centurions to rankers in a most friendly manner. His opinion was asked about this or that, he was flattered and deferred to. However, he was intelligent enough to keep his most condemnatory thoughts to himself until such time as Pompey Strabo was gone and his own command an established thing. Among these unfavorable reactions was shock at the lack of hygiene in the camp's sanitary arrangements; the cesspits and latrines were neglected, and far too close to the well from which the men were drawing water. This was typical of genuine landsmen, thought Pompeius Rufus. Once they considered a place was fouled, they just picked up and moved somewhere else.
When the junior consul saw a large group of soldiers coming toward him he felt no fear, no premonition, for they all wore smiles and all seemed eager for a conference. His spirits lifted; perhaps he could tell them what he thought about camp hygiene. So as they clustered thickly about him he smiled on them pleasantly, a
nd hardly felt the first sword blade as it sheared through his leather under-dress, slid between two ribs, and kept on going. Other swords followed, many and quick. He didn't even cry out, didn't have time to think about the mice and his socks. He was dead before he fell to earth. The men melted away.
"What a sad business!" exclaimed Pompey Strabo to his son as he got up from his knees. "Stone dead, poor fellow! Must have been wounded thirty times. All mortal too. Good sword work—must have been good men."
"But who?" asked another cadet when Young Pompey didn't answer.
"Soldiers, obviously," said Pompey Strabo. "I imagine the men didn't want a change of general. I had heard something to that effect from Damasippus, but I didn't take it too seriously."
"What will you do, Father?" asked Young Pompey.
"Send him back to Rome."
"Isn't that illegal? Casualties in the war are supposed to be given a funeral on the spot."
"The war's over, and this is the consul," said Pompey Strabo. "I think the Senate should see his body. Young Gnaeus, my son, you can make all the arrangements. Damasippus can escort the body."
It was done with maximum effect. Pompey Strabo sent a courier to summon a meeting of the Senate, then delivered Quintus Pompeius Rufus to the door of the Curia Hostilia. No explanation was tendered beyond what Damasippus had to say in person—and that was simply that the army of Pompey Strabo refused to have a different commander. The Senate got the message. Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo was humbly asked if—considering that his delegated successor was dead—he would mind keeping his command in the north.
Sulla read his personal letter from Pompey Strabo in private.
Well, Lucius Cornelius, isn't this a sorry business? I'm afraid my army isn't saying who did it, and I'm not about to punish four good legions for something only thirty or forty men took it upon themselves to do. My centurions are baffled. So is my son, who stands on excellent terms with the rankers and can usually find out what's going on. It's my fault, really. I just didn't realize how much my men loved me. After all, Quintus Pompeius was a Picentine. I didn't think they'd mind him one little bit.