FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
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FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
LOVE?...AND MARRIAGE, 647 AVC
LOVE?...AND MARRIAGE, 647 AVC
More than a month before Sulla’s nighttime talk with Gallus and Grovus, and a mere three days after Gaius Julius Caesar’s dinner party, Julilla was married...to Publius Cornelius Sissina, the Quaestor! The day after that dinner party, the Flamen Dialis had frantically visited the Sissina household, and apprised it of the situation. The entire family groaned together; were Julilla to have a child out of wedlock, Gaius Julius Senior would find out immediately who the father was by interrogating her, interrogating and/or torturing her companion-girl, and generally asking about—a well-respected and especially patrician man got whatever he desired if he asked angrily enough. Following that, Lucius Cornelius Sissina would surely be exiled with all his property confiscated, with his family—Quaestor Publius, his brother, in particular—ordered to make up the difference; the Cornelii Sissinae were very small fish in the senatorial ocean, and the onus of virgin-debauching far outweighed any amity which might have existed between the Cornelii Sissinae and their much more famous distant cousins the Cornelii Scipiones Nasicae.
“Just convince him to marry Lucius,” said Publius Cornelius Sissina Senior anxiously.
His son, Publius the Quaestor, groaned. “It’s not that simple, father. Don’t you see how suspicious it will be if Gaius keeps pushing his father to allow Julilla to marry Lucius instead of me? There’s no reason for it that we can reveal.”
“Truly, he’s right,” added Gaius Flamen Dialis. “Publius is the elder brother, and already a Quaestor; he’s much more eligible, and should be starting a family soon. Lucius is a tad too young, and has yet to be Military Tribune; he has no true fortune to his name.”
“None of us do,” said Lucius Cornelius Sissina Patruus [Paternal Uncle, as opposed to rowdy Nepos the nephew] bitterly, and then added, “yet.”
“We can’t even pretend that Publius is already betrothed, or betroth him to some girl today. The one is too easily falsifiable, the other again suspicious. And if my father should ask around and find out what sort of fellow Lucius is....” After this exposition by the Flamen Dialis, Publius Senior shot a look at Lucius Nepos that spoke of intense disappointment.
Now Publius Junior rounded on his brother. “Why didn’t you just listen to us? Why can’t you just be normal, respectable?”
“How does that solve our problem?” asked Lucius Nepos in a voice that was deep and yet sounded suspiciously like a whine. Once he might have been roaring at and shoving his family members, but now he truly understood his predicament. Penniless exile to some rot-smelling fishing village with no wine and dirty women did not appeal to him at all.
“You could at least admit you were an idiot!” said father Publius, red-faced.
“I was an idiot,” said Lucius Nepos in that tone of voice children used to make admonishing adults go away. “Now, how do we fix this?”
“We don’t fix this; I’ll fix it, little brother. I’ll fix everything,” said brother Publius bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
Brother Publius ignored him and turned to look Gaius Julius Caesar Flamen Dialis in the eye. “The Cornelii Sissinae have no fortune to speak of. I will excel as Quaestor, and my own intellect is assurance that the Praetorship will make me popular and the Propraetorship enrich me. However, I can’t afford to wait that long; I must marry now and start a family now. I love my brother—” the Flamen Dialis didn’t see it, but Sulla would have; Publius Junior probably loved all men more than was warranted “—despite his imbecility, and would find no shame in raising his child as my own...an unorthodox sort of adoption.”
“So...you will marry Julilla?”
“Yes,” nodded Publius the Quaestor. “How much higher could any man—even a Patrician Cornelius like myself—hope to go? I’d say that only Venus herself is more noble than a Patrician Julia, and I wouldn’t be far off.”
“You wouldn’t be off at all,” said Gaius Flamen Dialis, pleased at this high praise of his family. Ah, it was sure something, to be a member of the family descended from the Kings of Alba Longs and Aeneas and, through him, Venus herself.
Publius Junior nodded. “Right, I wouldn’t be off at all. So you see my reasoning. I’m sure that my brother will feel regret in ten or twenty years, when he sees what his son becomes and how high he rises, and laments that he wasn’t there himself for every moment. Of course by then it will be too late; man cannot turn back time, and—”
“Come on son, now’s no time to wax philosophical!” snapped Publius Senior.
“Ah, sorry dad.”
Gaius Julius Caesar Flamen Dialis clapped his hands loudly and the four Cornelii Sissinae jumped. “Well then, have we solved our dilemma?” he asked Publius Junior directly.
The man nodded. “We have, Gaius Julius.” He thrust his arm out for a handshake and said, “I would be delighted to be your brother-in-law.”
“For the honor of both our houses,” said Gaius Julius as he grasped Publius Junior’s forearm and shook vigorously, thus reminding them that this work was not out of the goodness of his heart; he’d rather that Julilla and Lucius Nepos had restrained themselves and not caused this mess in the first place.
Two days later, after an interview with Gaius Julius Caesar Senior, Publius Junior and Julilla were married confarreatio, as two patricians had to be married, by the Flamen Dialis in the atrium of Publius Cornelius Sissina Senior’s house. In attendance were the Cornelii Sissinae, the Julii Caesares and their cousin Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar (his brother Lucius and Gaius Strabo Vopiscus were in Spain with Spurius Dellius), family friend Publius Rutilius Rufus, and Gaius Flamen Dialis’s in-laws (and distant cousins of the Sissinae) the Cornelii Scipiones. As far as weddings went it was a small affair, for only two days had passed since it was announced, and not lavish, for Publius Cornelius Sissina Junior was not a rich man; what it lacked in size and ostentation it more than made up for in dignity, by virtue of the stunningly august and noble people attending. The most insignificant person there was Livia Drusa, wife of Scipio Nasica Junior and daughter of famous ex-censor Marcus Livius Drusus, who had been key in the demise of Gaius Gracchus.
After the ceremony’s completion the newlywed couple went hand in hand to Publius Junior’s bedchamber while the guests were conducted to the triclinium, which had been stuffed with extra couches to accommodate the feasters. There they found a simple but tasty fare of ducks, chickens, salads, assorted fruits and vegetables, and bread; Publius Senior’s cook made do excellently with the limited resources he had available. A gourmand or Epicurean such as Lucius Marcius Philippus and Quintus Hortensius were might have disdained the meal, but even haughty Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar pronounced that it was excellent.
Since Julia had once again been in charge of the seating arrangements, Gaius Flamen Dialis was seated next to women he did not know—Livia Drusa and that pregnant Servilia Scipionis who was Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar’s wife—and across from his own wife, Cornelia Scipionis Nasica. He supposed that Julia’s algorithm must have failed in this one instance, perhaps due to there being fewer guests, for his wife was seated next to her brother, who was of course across from his own wife Livia Drusa. Gaius Flamen Dialis shrugged and, glad to have the heavy, stuffy apex—which had been required for the ceremony—off his head, ran his fingers, greasy with chicken and duck and olive oil, through his thick hair carelessly as he ate, enjoying the feel of cool air on his naked scalp after the hours-long nuptials.
He noticed Scipio Nasica Junior curl his lip in distaste and look away quickly when he noticed Gaius looking. Gaius knew that the young man four years his junior thought him a poor sucker to have accepted the fate of being Flamen Dailis, which only went to show how ignorant and single-minded Scipio Nasica Junior truly was.
Now Gaius Junior looked sidelong at Livia Drusa and thought. She looked so sad, poor girl; surely life with the Scipiones Nasicae was not so oppressive? At least, it must be an improvement on the Livius Drusus household, who all said was the most oppressive in Rome when it came to its women; Publius Rutilius, when recalling his late wife Livia Drusa, often got tears in his eyes when recalling her fright on their marriage night. Not that they were physically abusive, the Livii Drusi; no, they were more careless and callous. What female could thrive under a roof that did not allow its girls to come out from under that roof?
No, Cornelia Scipionis Nasica, and Julia, and Julilla especially, were much better off.
Two days previous, in the late afternoon, Julilla was sitting in the house of Lucius Cornelius Sulla and happily chatting with Caecilia Sullana and bouncing little Cornelia Sulla on her lap. The baby girl’s dark curls flew up and down, this way and that, and with every bounce she produced a loud “beh”.
“Beh beh beh beh beh beh beh,” the baby pronounced, goggling up at the ceiling which came closer, went farther, closer, farther, closer, farther.
Julilla slowed the baby’s bouncing and then stopped it altogether. “My gods!” she panted, smiling with chagrin at Caecilia Sullana. “She’s not so heavy, but I am too weak.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Caecilia Sullana, who privately thought that Julilla was just a bit too skinny. “My ittle wittle baby is nice and fat,” she said as she relieved Julilla and held the baby to herself, hugging it.
“Beh,” said Cornelia Sullana, pushed against her mother’s breast.
“Hungry again!” laughed Caecilia Sullana. “You hungry again, baby? Beh-beh beh-beh, you hungry again?” She turned so that her breast would be hidden from Julilla, and began to feed the baby. “Ah, you wouldn’t believe how satisfying this is, Julilla. To feed one’s own child, out of one’s own body...ah, it’s something I can’t really explain. Just wait until you’re married, though; you’ll see!”
“Isn’t it wearying, though? You have to feed her every hour, and now there’s another one on the way.”
“It’s a very simple sacrifice to make. And it’s our Roman duty. Isn’t it, baby?” She shifted Cornelia’s weight and leaned forward so that she could distribute the load onto her knees. Cornelia wasn’t too heavy, but even the lightest of weights becomes onerous when it must be held continuously, and in a specific position. “Besides, Lucius Cornelius won’t allow a wetnurse, and I agree; you never know how dirty barbarian nipples will end up being. You’ll know what I mean when the time comes.”
Julilla nodded despite the fact that Caecilia Sullana couldn’t see her, and wiped the sudden tears from her eyes. She could have all this, in about nine months...but no, it was impossible. Next week or the week after her companion-girl, in her own spare time, would go and buy the required portion. Julilla would take it just after retiring for the night, suffer the horrifying process, and have her companion-girl carry her chamber pot out without letting anybody see; then it was bye-bye, her baby. Still, there was nothing else to be done. Nothing at all.
“Domina,” the Greek steward interrupted her thoughts, and broke the companionable silence that had allowed them to develop. He stood just outside the door and facing away, purposely unable to see his mistress as she was breastfeeding. “I am sorry to interrupt, Domina, but a servant of Gaius Julius’s and your own aunt Caecilia Metella Calva have just arrived. They are awaiting your pleasure in the atrium.”
“I’ll see what my father wants,” said Julilla, standing.
“Yes; if you must go home then goodbye, my dear.” Caecilia Sullana didn’t stand up and turn around to see her out or kiss her because the baby was still feeding. “Thank you, Trophimus. You can send my aunt to me.”
Julilla followed Trophimus to the atrium where she greeted Metella Calva briefly—what a silly woman, and rumored to cheat on her husband with slaves...or so her lover Lucius Sissina said—and said, without preamble, “What?” to the servant.
Long used to Julilla’s rude ways, the man didn’t even blink. “Your father requires your presence in his study.” Julilla pushed past him, rolling her eyes, and went out Sulla’s door, across the narrow alley, and into the door of her own house. Her feet immediately led her to her father’s study as she thought, What now? Over the years the four Caesar siblings had been summoned to answer for bad marks from the grammaticus or bad behavior in general, or to receive praise for excellent marks or—for the boys—physical feats. As they grew older the boys spoke to their father about business and economics and law and the military, whereas the girls rarely visited the study; Marcia supervised them and dealt out the punishments, excepting cases of severe deviousness. Julilla was chastised much more than Julia.
Still, even with the chastisements and her not inconsiderable Julian intellect, Julilla failed to excel in any of the traditional girls’ activities. Spinning, weaving, sewing, and even adequate mothering were all beyond Julilla; even less accepted but not unusual pursuits such as poetry, history, natural science, and the like were disdained by Julilla, who of all things loved music, dance, acting, wine, and—now that she’d met Lucius Sissina—sex the best. None of these things were acceptable for any noble person—let alone a noblewoman—to be interested in.
The truth was that she, the unexpected fourth child, had been spoiled rotten. Sextus and Gaius were going to embark on stellar careers in the military and the law courts, helping each other and recouping the family’s fortunes, Julia was going to marry a pleasant, successful, wealthy man to create political ties for her brothers, and Julilla was just...Julilla. A unique flower, daddy’s butterfly. Nobody could stay mad at her long enough to change things.
She had seen at dinner the night before what her brother was trying to do, and she knew that it wouldn’t work. More than that, she didn’t want to marry Lucius Sissina; true, he was handsome, and dominant, and an animal in bed, but so were plenty of men of the Head Count, she would wager. No, Lucius Sissina, without support and without the will to grab the political and military careers that were his birthright, was going nowhere fast; sooner or later his father would wise up and kick him out, or else die and leave the decision in his brother’s hands. She assumed that her father knew this; even if he didn’t, he could easily find out. Her brother’s concerns, she had assumed correctly, were for the honor of herself and the family, but she would solve that easily. One quick trip to some witch’s pharmacy, and Julilla would be set.
She reached her father’s study door and stopped. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself against whatever was on the other side, she knocked. “Enter,” came that kind voice. She opened the door and found her father seated at his desk, poring over some accounts and gazing up at the door expectantly. Her brother stood at his shoulder. “Ah, my dear! Sit down.” He set his pen down and moved the papers over to the side as Julilla sailed across the room and sat in the client’s chair; a man’s children were his clients forever.
A portrait bust of Publius Cornelius Sissina in 658 AVC
“Julia Minor,” said Gaius Senior, using her most formal name, “I have just received the most excellent and hoped-for bid for your hand. Your brother here came to lodge the suit in the man’s stead, and to argue for the marriage. Truly, he needn’t have argued at all, for I myself am all for the match.”
Julilla’s head spun at these words. How could her upright, moral father not find something at fault with Lucius Cornelius?
Gaius Senior, unaware of Julilla’s internal turmoil, went on, “Though I can tell you right now that there is only one way you can answer, I’d still like to know your opinion. Is there any reason you can think of—I confess that I cannot—that you should not marry Publius Cornelius Sissina Junior?”
Julilla’s mind raced faster than it ever had before. Publius Sissina! Then she thought back on some words that Lucius had used to describe his brother, and understood completely. She saw the triumphant grin on her brother’s face at solving such a difficult problem, and goaded herself away from revealing the truth and crushing that grin, though she wanted to badly. She knew she should have been grateful, for now she would not need to abort the child; still, that grin and her brother’s superiority infuriated her.
“No, father,” she said with no hesitation. “In fact, he’s nice and handsome and only thirty years old. I’d like to marry him!”
“Why!” said Gaius Julius Senior, who knew how contrarian his daughter usually was. “What a surprise! And cause for celebration!” He laughed aloud, “Gaius, you’re the only one married in the right order. Third child first, second child second, fourth child third, and now only Sextus is left unwed.”
Despite herself, Julilla laughed. Her father’s laughter and pleasure still caused warmth to grow inside her; she still loved him and, now that he had solved the abortion problem, she loved everything.
Two days later, and after the ceremony, she entered the bedroom ahead of her husband, who closed the door. The room dimmed and she stopped until her eyes adjusted to the winter afternoon half-light that filtered through grills high in the wall. When she could see she wasn’t ecstatic, but it was what she had expected; one bed with cloth coverings and coverlets, a cabinet, a closet, a few candles, a few lamps, a pewter pitcher, and two pewter cups. It was only in expensive rented rooms such as those that Lucius Sissina took that warm, roaring braziers, faux-Tyrian purple gilded pillows, couches, and sheets, and gold or silver goblets of the best vintages were to be found.
She went over to the pitcher, poured herself a cup, and drank; ugh, of course it was plain water! She set it down too hastily and felt Publius Sissina move behind her, probably thinking her nervous. Well, she knew what kind of man he was and knew that there was nothing to be nervous about. She turned and sat on the bed, legs slightly apart, and slowly slipped out of her heavy red wedding stola; she gasped when she discovered how cold the late November air was, even in the house, and quickly slipped under the thick blankets.
Publius Cornelius took a long draught of water—no doubt wishing it were strong wine—while still looking at her, and then undressed quickly, with his back to her, and joined her under the covers. When several seconds passed and he did nothing, Julilla sighed and rolled over on top of him; she began to kiss and rub her body against his.
He reared back—difficult to do while lying on his back in bed—and wrenched his lips from hers. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
She stopped moving and stared at him as rage built up inside her. She hadn’t sought this marriage, she’d only agreed to it! “What do you mean? This is what married people do!”
“Get off!” When she complied, he moved on top of her and spread her legs gently, then began to kiss her shoulders and caress her legs. What a strange thing to do when all this other stuff is available, thought Julilla. Finally he positioned himself, arms on either side of her and eyes closed, and...then she discovered that he was mostly soft.
“Oh hell!” she yelled, pushing him off and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’ll do my marital duty, all right, but you’ve got to tell me how! You want to pretend I’m a boy? That’s fine, just get it over with and don’t use the same hole you use for boys!” She went down on all fours and waited.
Red-faced, embarrassed, wishing he were anywhere but here, Publius Cornelius completed his self-sacrificing task.
Grouchio: Congratulations on adding to your Recap! Wow, there’s so much information there.
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FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET PART 1, 647 AVC
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET PART 1, 647 AVC
Scarcely two days into his term of office, on the 12th of December, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus struck, and thus began his controversial yearlong tenure as Tribune of the Plebs. The Forum frequenters and those who knew the temperaments and personalities of the leading lights of the Republic had honestly expected daunting amounts of reactionary legislation on his first two days in office, but the inauguration ceremony had been surprisingly quiet; as last year’s Tribunes had all—except for, though unbeknownst to most, Glaucia—been radicals racing against each other to dismantle the old order of things, this year’s Tribunes were a fairly conservative and subdued lot. Nobody, elector or otherwise, wanted a repeat of that year’s public violence and civil strife.
With some expectations thus broken but others held firm, citizens of all Roman classes learned on the morning of the 12th that their darling Ahenobarbus—who had earned their love for capturing three year’s worth of grain from King Jugurtha and for his scathing attack on the Caecilii Metelli and the haughty aristocracy during his trial earlier that year—was convening the Plebs in the Comitial Well at the sixth hour of daylight. This was a good choice of time, for it allowed enough time for the sun to warm the cold December air to where men could stand it, and it also occurred during the lunch hour, so that work was no so interrupted and so that more men of the Fourth and Third classes could attend.
Plebeian Boni and radicals alike attended, dreading what elaborate scheme Ahenobarbus might have thought up this time; patricians stood on the steps of the Curia Hostilia, right on the edge of the Well and as close as they could legally come to a meeting of the Plebs. Men began to gather about half an hour before Ahenobarbus was slated to speak, though he was already there and moving through the crowd, smiling and shaking hands and asking men to tell him who they were, and their story. Hundreds of slaves of his rushed about distributing pewter cups of mulled wine, a treat that—with its expensive spices and ingredients—most of the men there had assuredly never tasted.
“He’s the next Gaius Gracchus. Gaius Fulcinius reborn,” said Lucius Pontifex Maximus dejectedly to Marcus Aemilius Scaurus next to him. The two stood on the Senate House steps because Scaurus was a patrician and the Pontifex Maximus was keeping him company.
Scaurus smiled, not with bitterness but with genuine amusement. “I think you’ll find yourself proven wrong, Lucius. This young man is...something of an enigma, but a true champion of the nobility. I think we took the right decision in wanting to prosecute him for illegal warfare, but of course all he had to do was insult us and he’d won over the public and Gaius Fulcinius, who I am sure now was supporting him. Ah, if we could only have won him over....”
To this the Pontifex Maximus, still a bit irked at Scaurus’s behavior upon announcing his candidacy for Censor, had no reply, and turned back to see the meeting, which was just about to begin. The Comitial Well was full and the attending Plebs spilled out onto the surrounding open area of the Upper Forum. Soon the incoming rush of attendees dwindled and Ahenobarbus ascended the steps with many a pat on the back and then walked over to the rostra. Since a meeting of the Plebs did not include patricians, and thus was not representative of the Whole People, it was not sacred and did not require a sacrifice or auspices. Ahenobarbus was free to begin as soon as he wished.
Since it was so early in the tribunician year and the legislative waters—and the waters of Ahenobarbus’s enmity—had yet to be tested, every tribune was present. Ahenobarbus first looked around and surveyed his fellow Tribunes; he nodded with a smile to Saturninus, Quintus Pompeius Rufus, Titus Didius (one of the more conservative of grand knight-businessman Titus Pomponius’s supporters), Marcus Herennius, and Gaius Norbanus, and narrowed eyes for Lucius Licinius Crassus Orator (who had helped to lead the prosecution against him), Lucius Licinius Lucullus (who had also been against him), New Man Publius Silius (sponsored by Marcus Livius Drusus Senior; Junior would have nothing to do with the slimy man), and Manius Acilius Balbus (the son of the highly conservative man who had unsuccessfully run for Censor that year).
Now he turned, and began to orate in that plain, simple, abrasive style that he had affected and that had served him well during the trial. “Quirites, you saw just now how I turned and surveyed my fellow Tribunes. Some of these men are my dear friends, or relatives and friends of my dear friends; some of them can be called my enemies, at least within this political structure that is the Res publica, and have indeed attempted some mischief against me in the past.”
Here he paused and the crowd buzzed with curiosity. “Surely he’s not going to rile them up! He’ll ruin himself if he tries to whip up public violence so soon after the whole Fulcinius affair,” said the Pontifex Maximus.
“Shh,” Scaurus shushed him. “Listen.”
“Now, none of that matters! No, my fellow citizens, this is a time for strength through unity, and unity through strength. All of us know, and all too well, what schismatic behavior cost us last year. A propraetor—who was my great friend Marcus Antonius, who spoke in my defense—on the trail of wrongdoing assassinated not twenty miles away, a consul murdered in our very streets, a lictor run through in the middle of the Forum; these have been our punishments. Yes, our punishments, not simple events as they occur!”
Now the buzzing began, but it was a still a curious buzzing. He had not incurred the Crowd’s wrath, but he had piqued their interest. Scaurus groaned, “And now our punishments begin, Lucius Caecilius. He’ll have us by the balls in no time.”
The Pontifex Maximus nodded, “I know exactly what the next topic will be, when a Tribune starts prating about invisible punishments.”
Ahenobarbus went on. “Quirites, it is scarcely two days into the year and somehow I must prove to these men who do not trust me,” he waved his hand back to his enemies on the rostra behind him, “that I mean only good. I was elected Tribune of the Plebs to protect the interests of the Plebs—and by that I mean the vast majority of us plebeians, not those rich nobles who wish they were patricians—and by the Gods I will do my duty.
“As my duty, then, I must point out the inadequacies and failings of our priestly colleges. Yes, my friends. I know that many of you, despite your piety and offerings and prayers to our proper Roman gods, don’t follow closely the happenings of what I like to call the ‘religious establishment’. And it’s better that you don’t, truly, for the things I see disappoint. We have pontiffs and flamines who are more bent on co-opting relatives or friends or men they like than men who seamlessly honor the Gods and know the laws and the rituals and the proper obeisances. We have intelligent outsiders who might be able to make a difference and fight for what’s right rather than what’s expedient bribed with the augurship, and their nobler fellow augurs, who should be teaching and encouraging them, snickering behind their backs. We have augurs who make up the signs and omens, and haruspices who shy from blood and don’t even look at the organs they should be expecting. These are all things that occur, friends, and these are all things that must be stopped!”
“Well, that’s it,” said Scaurus. “We’re screwed.”
Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus pushed both hands in front of him, appealing to the crowd. “This is no days for blame, or threats, or violent action; I do not accuse patricians, I do not accuse nobles, I do not accuse you—yes, you, you common people!—for your oversight in this most important matter which affects us all. To divide our people and our state again would only further anger the Gods, and lead to greater ignorance of the proper forms; I only point out a problem that must be fixed, and a solution to be implemented.”
Now he turned, strode to where Saturninus was seated, and said in that same loud voice, so that all could hear him, “Lucius Appuleius Saturninus, President of the College of Tribunes of the Plebs and my dear friend, do you agree that something must be done?”
“I do, Gnaeus Domitius!” roared Saturninus happily.
Ahenobarbus stepped to the side and looked down at the next man seated. “Lucius Licinius Crassus, Tribune of the Plebs and my dear friend, do you agree that something must be done?”
“Nothing would please me more than to agree with you, and of all Rome only Quintus Hortensius is more of a hedonist than I! Yes, something must be done,” cried that smooth Orator in his honeyed voice; not for something as small and simple as this—oh, and intelligent Lucius Crassus saw exactly where Ahenobarbus was going—would he risk his reputation and popularity.
And so on down the line the triumphant Tribune went until Marcus Herennius finished with his burly Samnite roar of approval and Ahenobarbus moved back to the exact center of the rostra. “Well, Quirites, isn’t this a sight! Isn’t it!” and he stumbled in amazement. The crowd cheered, amused by this spectacle, and he went on, “All ten Tribunes of the Plebs are perfectly in accord; not one veto, not one dissenter, not one reason why what has to be done should not be done. Well then, I propose my Lex Domitia de res divinae.”
“Aaand here it is,” said Scaurus, “the killing blow.”
“This is a mighty delicate issue, Quirites, and one which, despite being religious, cannot be conferred upon the pontiffs or the augurs or any of the flamines; there have been decades, or maybe it is centuries, for generation upon generation of leading lights and religious figureheads to provide a satisfactory solution to the issue, and nothing has been done. Temporary patch-ups do not work, we need a solid solution.
“My solution is simple, and will not fuel any enmity; no man will lose his position and every man will leave the affair satisfied. More importantly, the Gods will be satisfied. A panel consisting of the greatest religious scholars and authorities, and by that I mean true bookworms like Publius and Lucius Cornelius Sissina, and like our studious young Flamen Dialis Gaius Julius Caesar, not the official ‘good old boys’—or don’t I mean Boni?—like our Pontifex Maximus and Scaurus and Drusus and Publius Servilius Vatia, who is an augur, shall be—oh, I’m sorry, did you lose me?” His audience laughed at these words—for they had lost him after all the names—and he began anew. “A panel, blah blah, shall be created, and it will attend every ceremony and rite and ritual and auspice-taking and haruspice-taking and sacrifice, and that panel will ensure that every step is correct, that every word is correct, that every fart, dear Quirites, is in line with the will of the Gods.”
Scaurus next to him cursed, and Lucius Pontifex Maximus said, “Oh, it’s not so bad. It actually makes quite a lot of sense; the Gods will truly be pleased.”
“The time Lucius, the time! Oh, he truly is punishing us. Where once we spent ten minutes on a ritual, now we will be at it for hours.”
The two friends said this against a background of cheers and shouts of approval; it was masterfully done, for a veto—which Manius Acilius and both Licinii itched to interpose—would probably ruin its owner’s career, and also possibly count as the breaking of an oath, for the law wasn’t too clear on such matters. The Plebs divided into their Tribes—here the majority of the attendees abstained, for they were of the four Urban Tribes, whose vote was worthless; and in any case, this law was a sure thing—and the slaves which had distributed the mulled wine rushed to organize voting gangways, distribute clay chips upon which votes were written, and take the actual vote.
The voting process was swift, and every Tribe supported the law. There was a bit more cheering, and then Ahenobarbus shouted, “Take the cups home, Quirites! They are my gift to you.” The poorer among them, who had been quite ready to steal the cups in the first place, cheered themselves hoarse; for most of them, the most precious cup was of clay, which could be painted but also could shatter, and some of them had never owned anything but a wooden cup. Those of the Third Class considered stealing shameful, but regarded it as a great gift; the wealthier men took them to use as gifts for slaves and freedmen, or else as an offering to a god.
With the crowd dispersing, Ahenobarbus presented the law’s text to his fellow Tribunes for validation, and then gave his own papers to a Priest of Ceres, who was the patron goddess of the Plebs. In the Temple of Ceres the law would be carefully inscribed upon a bronze plate and stored safely within the temple, safe against the tampering of patricians and nobles. The Lex Domitia de res divinae was born.
The sun broke free over the Esquiline Hill, and bleary Gaius Julius Caesar Junior smiled. Despite Gnaeus Domitius’s assurances that the law could only be positive, it had resulted in very long days and very short nights for him. No matter how efficiently and carefully the twenty-odd experts divided their supervisory duties over the religious rituals that fell under Ahenobarbus’s law, every man spent at least an hour or two per day somewhere explaining to some idiot how to hold an oaken rod or how to anoint a sacrifice just right.
The main problem with the Lex Domitia was that it did not at all exempt those secretive and backwards littler sects which knew how to run their own affairs, but which nobody else knew about. This meant that the commissioners had much to learn about the sects, and that the sects had to slow down their down-pat activities so that the supervisors could catch up and ensure that everything was going along according to plan. The positive was that nobody oversaw the overseers, and after a few weeks ensuring the sects’ compliance and documenting their bizarre ways—a great boon for Lucius Sissina the scholar and his friend the Flamen Dialis—they promptly stopped harassing the stern, odd, bearded, tattooed folk and embarked on an ideological purge of the Colleges of Augurs and Pontiffs and Haruspices and Lictors (who were a religious college) and others. Also on the list were Crossroads Colleges, which served the Lares who guarded roads and travelers and voyages, but which also sometimes operated more like gangs and mafias, especially in the Subura.
The Crossroads Colleges toned down their activities for a while—this panel was very well connected!—and also learned that the brother of one of the tribunes was next year’s Urban Praetor, Publius Licinius Crassus. It was in his power to disband the Colleges if they misbehaved; while bygone Praetors had overlooked that facet of the Subura, mostly because it had no effect on people of the First and Second classes, this Praetor would crack down, so as to protect the career and reputation of his little brother. They would have to go without an extra revenue source for a year.
View of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus from the Port of Rome. The Pons Sublicius can be seen in the middle distance
Now the Flamen Dialis stood at the bottom of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus’s thirty-nine steps with the other flamines and every pontiff and most of the augurs standing in rows nearby, waiting for one Consul and for the other Consul’s representative. Gaius Servilius Glaucia was of course in the city, he was to be a legislating Consul; it was Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla who was away on campaign, and in his place as his substitute was his third cousin Lucius Cassius Longinus. The night’s vigil had ended at the earliest dawn without ill omen, and the Consul-to-be and his colleague’s substitute had departed for home, there to change and refresh themselves, and gather their clients and followers. The two snaking processions came from roughly the same direction, and joined each other far from the Forum; Glaucia and Longinus came into view on the Clivus Capitolinus arm-in-arm, with the Equestrians preceding them and Senators following them.
They arrived at the foot of Rome’s principal Temple and stood shivering slightly in the early morning chill; Lucius Pontifex Maximus was meticulous in his keeping of the calendar, and the month matched the season very well. In front of them were the two pure white bulls, drugged and sleepy and enjoying the cool air, oblivious to impending doom. The Flamen Dialis, excited but not nervous, looked around to ensure that all was in order, and began the consular inauguration ritual for the first time in his life.
“We come here today to make a sacrifice these two ungelded male bulls, selected especially for their purity and whiteness, to you, Jupiter Optimus Maximus—you who have whichever name you prefer—you who are of whichever sex you prefer—you who may be the same as the Greek Zeus, or the sum total of all Gods, or no God at all. We sacrifice to you, Jupiter Optimus Maximus, that you may preserve the Roman state and its citizens from ill will, and that you protect the lives and well-being of our Consuls. If either or both of the sacrifices are not to your liking, only indicate that it is so now, and a replacement will be sent for.” The Flamen Dialis closed his mouth and allowed a long silence, for the Gods were known to tamper with the fates of impatient men. The quiet breathing of the gathered men could be heard, so silent was the gathering; Rome’s luck depended on satisfactory behavior at this ritual. “So be it,” said Gaius Junior, and a few men visibly jumped at the suddenness of this proclamation. “The sacrifices are to your liking; if some other thing is not in order, please indicate so now and I will endeavor with all my being to rectify any error or errors.” He allowed another judicious pause during which nothing happened, and then said, “Consuls, sacrifice your bulls.”
Gaius Servilius Glaucia, being the senior Consul, strode forward and slit his bull’s throat smoothly; the animal went down perfectly, its blood sprayed nowhere but down, and even his enemies later commented on Glaucia’s cool manner. Lucius Cassius Longinus, aware that all eyes were on him and that his cousin was depending on him, shook a little and made his bull still with awareness. The knife flashed quickly, though, and there was no trouble; the beast, oblivious to its fellow’s equal demise, fell on its knees with a loud crack, and then lay down, retching hollowly in startled death.
The Flamen Dialis sighed; all had gone perfectly well. “I greet you, Consul Gaius Servilius Glaucia and Consul Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla. He strode forward and was the first to shake the clean hand of each, then turned and moved away before the press of well-wishers rendered him immobile. At the fringe of the group he found the Pontifex Maximus standing white-faced.
“Why Lucius Caecilius, what is the matter? Please tell me if there has been some negative sign.” Gaius Junior was suddenly very worried.
“It is not that, friend,” said the Pontifex Maximus faintly. “I am not as young a man as you are, you know; these hours of wakefulness and moving about weaken me.” That was an understatement, for the Pontifex Maximus was nearly sixty years old and had a failing health whereas Caesar was only twenty-six and in the prime of his life, despite being unable to ride horses or run around without the cumbersome laena about him. Speaking of the laena, it was an excellent cloak for this cold weather; he didn’t feel a thing.
“I dare say,” said Gaius Junior, choosing to be blunt, “that Ahenobarbus is the author of the hours of wakefulness and moving about.”
“Not this day,” the Pontifex Maximus smiled sardonically, “but on most days, yes. He ferreted out some ancient bastard law that says the Pontiffs must meet every day at dawn and at dusk to welcome the sun and to see it off. Preposterous, but real! Damned Samnites must have brought it in when we gave some of them the citizenship. You’d think there’d be some kind of cult to do that for us.”
Gaius Junior smiled and said, “Ah, yes, I—um—found the law to that effect, but I put it aside as pointless, and disruptive besides.”
The Pontifex Maximus laughed and said, “A fine panel member you make! But no, I care nothing for this idiotic law. Mark my words, it will be the death of me.” Despite these words, Gaius Junior left for home knowing that his talk and the Pontifex Maximus’s anger had put a little more color into the sunken pale cheeks.
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Lovely updates all around! I do find Julilla's situation delightfully ironic--just what she deserved! The politics here are stunningly done, too, and I can't say enough about the wonderful writing.
Sly - thank you so much for being willing to be the proxy-updater! I was terribly sad when I thought this excellent TL would be discontinued, and your willingness to update is absolutely awesome.
Sly - thank you so much for being willing to be the proxy-updater! I was terribly sad when I thought this excellent TL would be discontinued, and your willingness to update is absolutely awesome.
FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
DISTANT THUNDER, 648 AVC
”Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules
Of Scipio and Brutus and such great men as these
But of all the world's great heroes there's none that can compare
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
Whenever we're commanded to storm the palisade
We form a grand testudo, advancing in its shade
We crash right through the gateway and kill everyone who's there
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
The Tribunes all are children, the Legates all are drunks
Centurions are sadists, and Optiones punks
But luckily for Rome, the ranks are filled with men most fair
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
There's some prefer the Pilum, and some the Gladius
There's some who use the Scutum to smash 'em in the puss
But no matter what your preference, you'll find true friendship here
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
So chug-a-lug that fish sauce, and slather on the oil
Strap on that dreadful armor and feel your blood boil
When you've marched ten thousand miles, you're only halfway there
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire”
[Adapted very slightly from this wonderful site.]
DISTANT THUNDER, 648 AVC
”Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules
Of Scipio and Brutus and such great men as these
But of all the world's great heroes there's none that can compare
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
Whenever we're commanded to storm the palisade
We form a grand testudo, advancing in its shade
We crash right through the gateway and kill everyone who's there
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
The Tribunes all are children, the Legates all are drunks
Centurions are sadists, and Optiones punks
But luckily for Rome, the ranks are filled with men most fair
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
There's some prefer the Pilum, and some the Gladius
There's some who use the Scutum to smash 'em in the puss
But no matter what your preference, you'll find true friendship here
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire
So chug-a-lug that fish sauce, and slather on the oil
Strap on that dreadful armor and feel your blood boil
When you've marched ten thousand miles, you're only halfway there
Sing tow-row-row-row
To the Roman Legionaire”
[Adapted very slightly from this wonderful site.]
It was early February and the fifteen legions of Spurius Dellius had just left camp in the town of Salduba [Zaragoza], where they’d stayed for a week, and the ground was shaking. Sulla, who had never been in the middle of more than three singing legions, closed his eyes and marched, singing along, for many miles. The experience, the feel and sound of over one hundred thousand pairs of boots, over five thousands sets of hooves, over a thousand bouncing, trundling cartwheels, was pure music to his ears. He was a Patrician Cornelius, among the best of all men and all lineages on the Earth, and this is what he had been born to do. To lead Rome’s sons, her blood and her glory, to victory against those that would do her harm.
He came back to himself with a snap and was surprised to find that it was almost noon; they had commenced the march just after done, and he’d been lost to himself for several hours. Ah, this was the life! In a way he would be glad to return to Rome, and to the opportunities and family life and trysts available there, but he knew that he would always hunger for this campaign life. To lead the army. Speaking of leading...he marched at the head of the first cohort of the first legion from Africa, which were the boys who had known him the longest. He’d quickly mixed back in with them and earned their devotion.
Spurius Dellius marched—on foot; all his staff were required to march on foot—somewhere near the middle of the column, at the head of the men he had recruited in Italia. Looking back, Sulla saw that he was not visible. The dozen or legions behind Sulla stretched back and disappeared into the horizon and the cavalry alternately rode and grazed on either side of the column. Ahead were another African legion headed by Metellus Piglet, and one of the Provincial legions, headed by Lucius Aurelius Cotta.
Sulla called for his noncombatant servant and, when the man had come near, said, “Fetch me my horse.” The man came with the horse, and Sulla motioned to the Primus Pilus Centurion to continue leading the march and then stepped out of the column and mounted. The horse, a mare who had been walking in the dusty air left by two legions all day, was happy to bolt when Sulla commanded her to, and he charged her for a quarter-mile before reining her in and slowing down to a fast canter as he wheeled about and looked over the column.
The terrain here just northwest of Salduba was dry year-round, and especially dry now that it was winter. The cold wind howled over and around rolling, gentle hills yellow with dead grass and grey with stones and rocks. As the hills rose and then undulated away from the Iberus River, the road for the most part followed next to the wide grey river, which had enough sediment in it from the mountains that it did not reflect the clear blue sky above.
Landscape of Hispania Citerior around Salduba in the autumn. Ignore fields, power lines, towers, buildings....
At this point, though, due to a wide bend in the river and the tough slope—almost a cliff—that would have been difficult to climb, the road slanted away from the river and led through the hills. Sulla rode to the top of the nearest bare hill, for long human settlement and little precipitation meant that there were not many trees around, and took in the view. Hills surrounded the marching army, and it seemed as if the world could continue on like this, forever; still, there were signs that the Romans were not lost to their own dimension. The sharp line of high mountains jutted up from the horizon to the north and to the southwest, and fuzzy purple shadows to the west hinted at mountains there, too. To the east the sea could not be seen at all.
He looked round; not a German in sight. Then he spurred his horse on again, and rode for the very head of the column. “Aave, Lucius Aurelius,” he called in that exaggerated army accent that he affected.
“Oh, aave yourself, Lucius Cornelius. Fetch my horse, boy,” said Lucius Aurelius as he stepped out of the column and the men called greetings and insults to Sulla.
“We march and you two go off to bugger that horse, what rotten luck.”—“Idiot, they’re too good for that; it’s a mare, and they’re committing bestiality.”—“They’re nobles, you fools; they wouldn’t stoop so low. They’ll just bugger each other!” Every man who heard the exchange laughed, including Sulla and Cotta. Mounted, Cotta rode over to Sulla and they rode off together.
“What do you think, Lucius Aurelius, of our position along the river?”
Cotta frowned, “I admit I’m not much of a general, Lucius Cornelius, but it is important. It might be good or bad, for us to be on the same side that the Germans are on. We won’t be separated from them, and can attack immediately and perhaps catch them unawares. I do see, though, that we Romans can be overconfident. With no larger bridges nearby and us on the same side of the river as the Germans, there’s no avenue for escape.”
“I think,” said Sulla deliberately, “you would be right, Lucius Aurelius, if only the Germans were an organized marching army, instead of a loose march of warriors, women, children, carts, and cattle. I like to think that I experienced more of their type of warfare and their discipline in Gaul than anybody else, and I can say confidently that I didn’t care much for it. There’s not a thing they have that we can adopt.”
“If you think so,” shrugged Lucius Aurelius, who was in no mood to argue a point he wasn’t solidly convinced of. Just then they reached the edge of the high slope which went down into the river, and stopped. “It’s more of a cliff, really,” responded Lucius Aurelius to no question, and gazed around. “What a view.”
“It’s not too interesting unless you see a million bobbing golden heads coming our way,” said Sulla. “All this land is the same, nowhere with more of an advantage than any other place, when battle comes.”
“Still, Sextus has the cavalry scouting twenty and more miles out every day,” said Lucius Aurelius, though not disapprovingly.
“He’s a splendid young man,” said Sulla. “Top-notch Quaestor—after myself, of course,” he added quickly, to which Lucius Cotta chuckled. “I wonder though...your father governed here, I’m sure the big man could’ve used him to organize the province and its finances and whatnot when we arrived.”
“Well, the state in which he left—I mean, what happened after he left...it would look to others as if he were atoning for a mistake,” Cotta’s face reddened.
Sulla nodded, “Yes, you’re right. Better to leave other men to an unforeseen problem than to admit a mistake that was not your own.” The way Sulla said it, Cotta didn’t know whether it was meant to be sarcastic or not. Sulla wasn’t thinking about Marcus Aurelius Cotta; in any case, he didn’t think much of the elder Cotta at all. No, he was thinking about how to tie this talented young man to himself, and in the best way possible.
Wordlessly he turned his mare’s head to the side and began to walk it along the ridge, looking down into the steely waters below. Cotta followed him and soon brought his own horse even with Sulla’s, and left Sulla to his own thoughts. “Lucius Aurelius, what kinds of hopes do you have for your dear sister Aurelia?”
“Lucius Cornelius,” Cotta scoffed, smiling, “you’re married.”
“And to Piglet’s sister, no less,” Sulla laughed. “No, I think that Aurelia would be too smart a wife for my own good. Caecilia is perfect for me. I am wondering what kind of a husband you and your father would like for Aurelia.”
“Mmmm,” Cotta hummed, eyebrows raised. “Truly, it feels as though every nobleman in this army has asked that question.” Cotta, who loved his sister dearly, was wary of any attempt at tampering with her future; thus his evasive actions against Longinus Ravilla in the previous year.
“And yet none have a chance with her,” Sulla said, trying to put him at ease, and succeeding. “I just have some ideas, Lucius, nothing more. I wouldn’t try nasty tricks or pressures like Ravilla must have, uncouth ape that he is.”
“His son’s even worse.”
“There you go,” Sulla nodded. “Any man I would suggest will be as you and I are: noble, respectable, respectably wealthy, many good habits, few if any bad habits, brave, competent, sensitive. Simply ask Aurelia what my Caecilia has told her of married life to me, and you’ll know that I can make a good choice.”
“Lucius Cornelius Sulla the matchmaker! I never would have expected it.”
Sulla smiled sourly. “I’m more for the drama and spectacle of it than for any good effects which might come about.”
“Well, that just about makes you the only honest man in the First Class,” said Cotta. Sulla’s easy, confident, joking manner had gotten Cotta to become curious about the proposal. It couldn’t really be such a bad suggestion, and he had heard even before they’d left for Spain of how good a husband Sulla was to Caecilia. “Come on then, tell me. Who should I consider as a match for Aurelia?”
“Our dear...Piglet!”
”Oh, this wine really hits the spot, Molacus.”
“If you like Sicilian wine, wait ‘til my slave girls hit your spot.”
Quintus Caecilius Metellus Nepos, Quaestor to Propraetorian governor Lucius Valerius Flaccus in Sicily, lay on the soft, smooth, down-filled Tyrian purple cushions on the terrace of Marcus Plinius Molacus’s mansion in Messana. The weather was wonderful, sunny and still and unseasonably warm; it was not too humid down on the beach, and it was not too dry up on the terraces of all his friends.
“Come on Molacus, is this real Tyrian? I mean, it shimmers and all the right way, but still....”
“What, you think we Sicilians are too poor to afford it? This is the true Tyrian, first colored with the dye produced by the Moroccan snails, and then taken all the way across the Mediterranean to Tyre, risking pirates all the way, to be dipped there and then taken again halfway across the Mediterranean.”
“Expensive, with all these pirates around,” Nepos said as he plucked at the cushion and emptied his cup. “Ah, more wine!”
As the slave stepped forward and filled his cup, Molacus said, “Yeah, somebody should do something about that.”
“Oh, not me! I only have land legs; my friend Ahenobarbus is much better on the deck of a ship.” Nepos took another swig of wine. “Excellent wine,” he muttered.
“Ah, then why not? Imagine, such a grand Praetorian campaign, and it would earn him the gratitude of us all. Every merchant sailing on the Middle Sea...” Molacus said it as if dangling a carrot in front of Nepos’s nose.
“No way, no way,” Nepos said, shaking his head. “You can ask Censor Princeps Senatus himself, and he’ll tell you, and I agree with him for a change, that we shouldn’t shoulder that burden until Egypt at least joins in and pays part of the cost. Ships, men, gold, doesn’t matter; they’ll benefit more than Bithynia and Pontus and Mauretania, who will, without question, give support.”
“Numidia too, surely,” Molacus smiled. “Trade shot up two years ago and has been soaring, ever since you stole Jugurtha’s grain and your friend Sulla made that good peace.”
“He’s not really a friend,” drawled Nepos, taking another few sips, “but he’s not a bad sort, not at all. Anyway, that was a really shitty peace, if you ask me.”
“May the Gods curse Spurius Postumius Albinus forever. He should have killed himself instead of going off into exile in Massilia. I wish he’d settled here, so that we could have ripped him apart.”
“The profits, the profits!” cried Nepos, and Molacus joined in, not realizing that Nepos was being wholly sarcastic. “Anyway, we would own all of Numidia now if it hadn’t been for Catulus’s loss against the Germans. That’s why Sulla was recalled.”
“The cunt,” snarled Molacus, then added hurriedly, “Catulus, I mean,” after an incredulous look from Nepos.
Nepos shook his head, “Yes, of course. Ah, where wa—yes, okay, so Sulla and my cousin Metellus the son of Numidicus—haha, good joke right?—would have had Jugurtha licked by the end of the year. The tribes were cold-shouldering him, his barons were turning against him, and his dear half-brother and only absolutely trustworthy ally Bomilcar was dead.”
“Then Catulus lost his army at—wait, wasn’t your cousin Metellus with Catulus, not Sulla?”
“Damn, these things confuse me sometimes,” slurred Nepos, draining his cup and slapping his face slowly. “Ah, better. Yeah, my cousin was with Catulus at the time. Anyway, it’s all Catulus’s fault. And Albinus, the idiot. You know his brother, that Aulus who passed under the yoke, isn’t doing too bad.”
“Badly.”
“No, not badly. He’s doing good.”
“Well, you mean.”
“Well, I mean what? I mean he’s doing good. Ah, just shut up, what are you even talking about.” Nepos drained his cup and stood, then remained thus, bent at the waist and breathing hard for a few seconds. He straightened suddenly and said, “Okay, I’m okay. Gotta piss, you know.” He stumbled over to the terrace’s edge, pulled the urinating instrument out from among the folds of his disheveled toga, and held it over the edge of the balustrade.
The clear stream fell a hundred feet down the sheer drop before hitting less vertical rocks still far from the crashing waves below. “Ah,” he slapped at his face again. “You’re rather brown, but I’ll get a sunburn if we stay out any longer.” He stood on one foot, stretching the other leg behind him, and then the other. “Ah, so Aulus.”
Muffled words came from behind and Nepos turned to see Molacus devouring bread which he dipped in olive oil. “Mm geff hnngr wwn U’m drrnk,” said Molacus, then swallowed and said, “Not on the terrace! Turn around!”
Nepos looked down and saw that he was still urinating. Giggling, he turned round and the cascade began again. “Anyway, Aulus.”
“Mmm, what about Aulus?”
“He’s only a year or two late, but there’s talk that he’ll be Praetor next year. He’s been working hard, serving on every kind of clerical staff and all that. Damned goody two shoes. Anyway, all the electors have forgotten all about that yoke stuff. They only know it was a Postumius Albinus who disgraced us all, and assume that it was the exiled Postumius.”
“Aulus’s brother Spurius. Cunt.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause and the sound of Molacus’s munching and the smell of freshly baked chicken drifted over to where Nepos stood. “Are you still pissing, man?”
Nepos looked down and saw that he wasn’t. “No,” he tittered, then laughed out loud.
“Well, come join me. Even I can’t eat a whole chicken all by myself.”
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FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
ROMA ET ITALIA PART 10, 648 AVC
ROMA ET ITALIA PART 10, 648 AVC
“...and truly, Publius Cornelius, I don’t see how this kind of behavior can be tolerated at all! I mean, even coming from someone like you—if you’ll excuse my saying so, of course—it’s a bit high-handed, wouldn’t you say. And then, of course, that it came from some Picentine oaf such as that man...it—it defies all logic!”
Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica Junior sighed. It was early afternoon and he was standing in the warm sunshine just outside the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, listing to ex-Deputy-Quaestor Marcus Milonius. Scipio Junior hugged his toga closer about him and wished he was at home, or else that he had joined his father in the dawn pontifical vigil which Ahenobarbus had forced on the pontiffs, and the conversation that would have surely followed. “I...sympathize with you, Marcus Milonius, I really do, but there’s nothing that I can do. There’s nothing anybody can do, really, unless Gnaeus Pompeius gets himself convicted on grounds of grain peculation or some other charge. Given the recent public violence, I really don’t think that’s likely at all.”
“Come on, you’re a Patrician Cornelius!” Milonius whined. “Your father’s father led the execution of Tiberius Gracchus, surely you can do something as simple as putting some Picentine oaf in his place!”
“Gnaeus Pompeius,” said Scipio heavily, “is not the kind of man I’d choose to cross.” From that opinion he would not be budged, and shortly the two men made their way down the Clivus Capitolinus; Scipio for the Palatine and home, and Milonius for temporary lodgings elsewhere in Rome.
Scipio had met Marcus Milonius when he had been the clerk of Quintus Varius, Grain Quaestor in 646 AVC, and Marcus Milonius had been another clerk. By now Marcus Milonius must have had at least five years of experience in the position, and would surely be running for Quaestor, new man though he was. While at the time, two years ago, the man had been genial enough and young Scipio Nasica had been thinking of adding him to his own tiny circle of high-climbing clients and useful men, now it was proven that Marcus Milonius was not so resourceful when times were rough.
Typically if a man wished to continue in a clerical post, he would be confirmed by his boss’s successor. Given Marcus Milonius’s experience and successful service to a variety of Quaestors—crooks like Memmius who had managed to hide things from him, whining fools such as Quintus Varius who had him do all the work, and competent devils like Lucius Appuleius Saturninus—it should have been no problem for him to be prorogued, as these matters went, through this year. The problem was the type of man he’d run into: Gnaeus Pompeius.
Though Lucius Appuleius was a Picentine, he wasn’t quite an oaf. He wasn’t big or loud or obnoxious, he didn’t shove his servants and employees aside and panic them by pretending some near deadline, and he didn’t prefer relatives and fellow Picentines; Gnaeus Pompeius did was and did all these things. Marcus Milonius was by nature a social man, so he was always asking after the latest gossip from Rome and the word of this man’s health or that man’s troubles and, anticipating no difference, had continued doing so after the first of January.
THWACK! Marcus Milonius jumped up and brought his hand to the back of his head. “Get back to work!” roared Gnaeus Pompeius. “No time for giggling like a schoolgirl, I want a tight operation and no chance of being accused of some idiocy!” The man—a servant of Gnaeus Servilius Caepio’s—who had just been gossiping about Metella Calva stood staring at Gnaeus Pompeius in shock, and then promptly turned for the door and ran out, there to deliver a letter and then journey across Italy, then the Adriatic, to join his master, who was Ravilla’s quaestor in Macedonia.
Marcus Milonius had taken this incident very hard and, after a few of the less competent clerks had been replaced by snickering Picentines who misplaced his papers and “innocently” tripped him up, he had quitted. He’d expected Pompeius to apologize and beg him not to leave, and to offer him a raise to stay and do the finances in his excellent way, and had been anticipating rejecting Pompeius; instead the man had laughed and said, “Good riddance.” So now Marcus Milonius was out of a job and, since it had been heavily hinted by a younger, more foolish Scipio Nasica that he was his client, had naturally gone to his patron for aid.
Scipio Nasica stopped in the Forum to buy a spicy treat of hot sausage surrounded by a thick warm bun, and closed his eyes in both delight and in chagrin. Yes, this incident would surely decrease his dignitas. Ah, well; he was young—only twenty-three years old—and healthy, had a child on the way, and had time yet to accrue such clout as his father had and his anti-Gracchus grandfather had had.
It would appear to the casual observer that young Scipio Nasica rather had no talents, and was yet another aristocratic fool. This was not true. Since late childhood and early adolescence he had been enamored with the writings of and about his relatives and ancestors; men such as Scipio Africanus, the vanquisher of Hannibal; Scipio Asina, the loser of a sea battle whose perseverance won through; the first Scipio Nasica, who was chosen to escort the statue of Magna Mater from Ostia to Rome because he was the very best of the Romans; the second Scipio Nasica, who had opposed that peasant Cato the Censor and been Princeps Senatus; the third Scipio Nasica, young Scipio’s grandfather, who had opposed the populist policies of Tiberius Gracchus and had led the good Roman men against him; and others. He admired their heroic nature, their sense of adventure, and also their respect of duty and decorum. It was one thing to be the greatest, and quite another to be the greatest and yet restrain yourself and allow others the respect deserved to them; Scipio Aemilianus, who had applauded the Senate’s handling of the whole Gracchan affair though the Gracchi were his brothers-in-law, was the prime example.
Young Scipio Nasica did not have a passion for war or for horsemanship or for law or for politics; he liked to lead men, to make the policies, and to snap his fingers and be obeyed. He liked to come up with the best solution to a problem—and for a coddled patrician, he did so very often—and to hand it to others to be drafted into law or become the scene of a battle. Even now, a few years early, he was agitating to become a Tribune of the Soldiers; not because he lusted for war or loved those Third and Fourth class men who made up the rank and file, but because he wanted to get it over with, and wanted to get into the thick of social and political life in Rome. Being and being the son of a Scipio Nasica sure did help.
“Cousin Publius!” a voice called right into his ear as he felt a hand clap onto his back quickly.
He jumped and stopped, turning around. “Publius!” His assailant was Publius Servilius Vatia Junior, son of Vatia Senior and his wife Caecilia Metella, who was the elder sister of Scipio Junior’s mother Caecilia Metella. The cousins embraced and Vatia joined Scipio in the hike up the Vestal Steps, which led onto the high spur—the Germalus—of the Palatine Hill. “So, what’ve you been up to?”
Vatia Junior was only seventeen, and seemed to have interests all over the place; his hands were big but he was skinny and his limbs were long and very lanky. “Well,” he gesticulated wildly, ear-length brown hair bobbing and looking for all the world like a spider, “in a year or so I’ll be running into the law courts and speaking in the Forum in general. I should hope that some of my friends will like to debate, and then we can show off our skills to the crowd.”
“So you’ve been studying rhetoric,” Scipio Nasica nodded, smoothly sidestepping a dog turd.
“Oh, yes, absolutely!” spluttered Vatia, who greatly admired his cousin. “Isocrates, Aristotle; I mean, the guy’s a genius!”
“Mmm, you can’t go wrong with Aristotle,” panted Scipio Nasica, who had just pushed a doe-eyed, red-robed, predatory prostitute off himself.
“What I find lacking, really, is truly Roman rhetoricians. All the big guys are Greek. Even when we’re talking about orators, the non-theorists who go out and really do the dirty work, the only famous ones are Greek. Sure, you have those Cornelii Scipiones and all sorts of Aemilii and some Valerii who are quite good at speaking this way or that, but nothing really distinguishing.”
Scipio Nasica grunted something that sounded like assent as a big, fat, slightly drunk butcher walking the other way stepped on his foot. Vatia went on, “Now of course there are flukes like Gaius Fulcinius, men that can orate in Latin; however, that just won’t cut it. What’s the use of orating if it won’t be in the most pure, most civilized tongue?”
Now, finally, was a topic on which Scipio Nasica had a substantial opinion. He squeezed close to his cousin to avoid two grunting workingmen who were precariously carrying a heavy marble paver down the steep Vestal Steps, and said, “I can agree that Greek is the most civilized tongue; after all, it’s the tongue of Aristotle and Alexander and Thucydides, not to mention Homer and some of my fellow patricians’ distant demi-god ancestors. Still, Rome is Rome, and the world changes; the government of Rome belongs to all men, though of course the best should have a greater voice. Still, every man should have an understanding of what is going on, and what topics are being discussed; how can that happen if we orate in Greek? I agree that Gaius Fulcinius is a freak, an Italian fluke in what should be a Roman system; but still, his appeal is in his popularity—literally his popularity, his appeal to the people. By going down to his level—though it’s more across to his level, for Latin is our tongue yet—we gain the trust and amity of the people.”
“You just said yourself,” said Vatia, deflated at this response, as they emerged from in between the high insulae flanking the Vestal Steps and turned right onto the wide, park-like Clivus Victoriae, “that the best must rule.”
“We must rule,” said Scipio Nasica, putting his arm around the younger man’s shoulder. “I said, ‘we must rule’, not lead. The people are not sheep or mules to be led around and given tasks and such. They are like clients and we patrons. Or, if you like, they are grown sons such as ourselves, and we are their fathers. Is that not what the senators call themselves—what you and I will be calling ourselves in a decade or so? ‘Conscript Fathers’, ‘Fathers of the Republic’.”
“It’s past that,” Vatia said, trying to assimilate this information. He’d never heard this side of his cousin before. “The Tribunes...what they’re doing is sick. Anathema to all Rome stands for.”
“Some,” Scipio’s face set, “are traitors to their ow—say! What’s going on over there?” They both stopped and saw three carts full to the brim with boxes stopped at the cargo doors of the Ahenobarbus house. Laborers were lifting the boxes—heavy, by the look of it—and moving them to the shade just inside the doors; a distinct clanging came from within.
“I wonder what’s in there. Surely—no! Not weapons? Not so soon after all the other violence.” Vatia was very anxious, and looked to his cousin for comfort.
Scipio scoffed. “I’d say that Gnaeus Domitius doesn’t have the balls. No, I’ll bet you those are boxes all full of tableware made of tin.”
”This stuff must be worth a fortune,” said Lucius Appuleius Saturninus to Ahenobarbus later that day, as the two stood indoors by the closed cargo doors and surveyed the now-open boxes.
“Not quite,” said Ahenobarbus, grinning. “Nepos inherited all those tin concessions and the rents on those pewter smithies on the Balearic Isles. So he sells the smithies tin and collects the rent from the land, which is coincidentally pretty much the only land on the Isles suited for smithing—lots of water and near ports and all that. All he did this year was give them tin for free, and demanded a certain amount of pewter cups and bowls and plates and candlesticks and stuff in return.” Since his tribunal debut on December 12th, Ahenobarbus had convened the Plebs only three more times, and never to speak on laws; all he did was stress the importance of religion in a society that was descending further and further into decadence and unnecessary frivolity, and these speeches were very well received by the public. Not surprising considering that he gave away some dear pewter item to every Roman plebeian; it even served to amuse and seduce some of the less important Equestrians. On the whole, however, feeling among both patricians and plebeians in the top two classes was not good about what Ahenobarbus was planning—and he was planning something! Had to be! Or at least, that was the feeling.
“By the way, how is our dear friend Nepos? Gaius Servilius”—Glaucia, that is—“sometimes mentions him as...as a factor.”
“That dangerous, is he?” grinned Ahenobarbus wolfishly. “Anyway, I expected that you would have some laws of your own to draft. Well, it’s been three months and...nothing, really.”
Saturninus shrugged. “I feel as though Crassus Orator and I are playing some sort of waiting game. Who will present their law first, and who will veto first?”
“Does it matter?” Ahenobarbus rolled his eyes as he sifted through pewter plates. “Excellent quality, I’ll have to write thanking him.”
“Balearic,” said Saturninus matter-of-factly. “Anyway, of course it matters. Though, this being politics, everything can be taken two ways. Whoever moves first can be seen as constructive and good, a positive force, or else too pushy and pursuing his own ends. Conversely, whoever vetoes first can be seen as protecting the Plebs’ rights, or as being deliberately obstructive.”
Ahenobarbus shrugged. “Just make the right move. Though that Crassus Orator is a slippery fish, you’re right. He could sell a prostitute’s see-through shift to the most respectable matron in Rome, and he could convince Metella Calva to become only the second-most-lascivious woman in Rome.”
Saturninus snorted laughter. “You’re right about the damned man, and about Metella Calva! Anyway, I have an idea for a law, and I’m sure you’d support me...it’s a bit difficult though.”
Ahenobarbus shushed him, straightened from his inspection, and hooked his arm through Saturninus’s, leading him from this wide side of the atrium, dusty from workmen’s sandals and the detritus carried by January wind, to the triclinium and calling for dinner all the way. “It’s best that I’m sitting down and eating when I get bad news,” he explained. “I daresay that I’d like to be skinny as a stick in old age.”
Saturninus raised his eyebrows with a grin in reply, shedding his toga and washing his hands in a bowl proffered by a servant. The same servant then took his senatorial boots of red calfskin off and rolled thick, warm woolen socks onto his feet; thus ungirded and shod, he reclined with Ahenobarbus on the couch as the first course, warm loafs of fresh bread and a mixture of olive oil and spices, was brought to them. “I must,” said Ahenobarbus as he chewed on a loaf and surveyed the empty room in front of him, “acquire a wife and some children.”
Saturninus reflected on this. He himself was thirty, and in the good, optimum age for marriage. Honestly, he thought he should have married sooner, as having a wife—especially a noble wife—and children added to a man’s dignity; as things stood, he’d be quite an old man before his sons grew to be elected Military Tribunes, let alone become established men, with great clout. Is this the fate of men, to wander the Earth and wonder with anxiety whether they will live to see their sons lead armies, or whether they will die tomorrow of fever or apoplexy?
Saturninus visibly shivered, and Ahenobarbus saw him go white. “Are you quite all right, Lucius Appuleius?”
Saturninus’s eyes opened with a start and he nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Go on, Gnaeus Domitius, just a stray thought. I, too, should acquire a wife and sons.”
Ahenobarbus nodded. “Anyway, I...well, there’s not much to go on about. What’s your news; what’s your difficult idea for a law?”
“Alright,” said Saturninus, leaning forward and setting the loaf he’d been picking at down; Ahenobarbus began wolfing his own down. “You remember Gaius Fulcinius’s whole set of laws, of course.” Ahenobarbus’s eyes widened as he nodded, and Saturninus continued, “You remember his law on juries being composed only of Equestrians?”
Ahenobarbus stopped chewing. “Noooooo. Noooo waaaaay.”
“Way,” nodded Saturninus, grinning. “The Tribunes of last year were so cowed by his death that they overturned all his laws, even the good ones. Even the ones necessary for the existence of the Republic, which prevent idiot generals from murdering through negligence a hundred thousand brave and truly Roman souls, not to mention governors from exploiting their provinces and fleecing the Treasury. Not that you,” laughed Saturninus, who had no illusions about Ahenobarbus’s character, “mind fleecing the Treasury and exploiting provinces much.”
Ahenobarbus, who now had a mouthful of roast quail, only waved his arm expansively and said, “Go on, go on.”
“Well, I’m bringing the law of juries made up of Equestrians back.” He leaned forward again and looked at Ahenobarbus intensely. “I will have this law, Gnaeus Domitius. You’re of an old, anciently noble family, but I know that you know that I know that you know how absolutely necessary this is. The knights won’t care much for gubernatorial embezzlement, anyway; you know that as long as you give a few cheap, juicy contracts to the most important of them, you’ll be completely safe. No, they’ll go after the men who are bad for business; and the men who are bad for business, are bad for Rome.”
Ahenobarbus swallowed his bite of garum-soaked licker-fish and looked vacant, though this was his look when he was thinking. “Yeah,” he nodded deeply, dipping his head up and down. “You’re completely right, and I’ll support you all the way.” He shook Saturninus’s dry hand with his own greasy one, and they dug into the meal.
A row of whole roast quails
“Well,” said Saturninus, who was now quite hungry after having gotten that rough topic off his chest, “I guess I underestimated Gaius Servilius when he said that you would be supporting me every step of the way.”
“Mmm,” said Ahenobarbus, who had yet to swallow another mouthful of bread and quail. “I really became quite a free radical when they snubbed me last year—wow, it has been just a bit over a year since it happened. I’ll do anything to annoy those jerk-offs who lead the Senate.”
“The...Policy Makers, isn’t it? Who was it coined that term, Fulcinius? Gaius Servilius?”
“I’ve never heard that term used,” said Ahenobarbus blankly, then dug into a plate of salted oysters and snails. “It’s a good term, though,” said Ahenobarbus after slurping one snail up. “I’ll use it, for sure.”
They ate in silence for some moments before Saturninus began again, “So, that’s really the whole purpose of your tribunate? To make life hell for the Pontiffs and the Senate’s senior members?”
Ahenobarbus shrugged while nodding at the same time, to weird effect. “Things need to be shaken up, that’s obvious. Hell, even Scaurus and the Pontifex Maximus supported Catulus Caesar before Fulcinius gave them a bit of resistance; that shows you how bad it is. We need right-thinking men of new blood and old—old preferably, no offence to yourself—who can truly lead. Who can lead Rome competently, and into glory; men like Nepos and Sulla—and myself, if I may not be modest—come to mind.”
“And Marcus Antonius,” sighed Saturninus, who had been a good friend of his.
Ahenobarbus, who’d been an even better friend, ate faster. “Mmm, he was my good friend. Defended me at my trial. He was a real man, a man’s man, a soldier’s man; oh, but I miss him. May Gaius Servilius Glaucia live forever, for being instrumental in bringing Gaius Fulcinius and Marcus Antonius’s other murderers to their graves.” Ahenobarbus was of course neglecting to mention that Nepos had much more to do with the deaths of Fulcinius, Memmius, and Fimbria than Glaucia did.
“How are those two little boys of his, by the way? Are they doing well? Hopefully they’re too young to remember.”
“Marcus is four, and he remembers his father; he’s very quiet at times. Usually when there’s a man around, I gather from Caninia. The little one, Gaius, doesn’t remember anything. No, I mean that. He tries to bite my hand off every time I visit; Caninia says he likes trying to bite the poor wet nurse’s tits off.”
“‘...Caninia says...’?” Saturninus’s eyebrows arched. “Have you perhaps been visiting too often, Gnaeus Domitius?”
Ahenobarbus smiled, “Ah, she’s a handsome woman. She’s young, fertile, has two sons who will be healthy and—judging by their father—intelligent, and big meaty bastards, to boot. I’ll admit, I’ve been thinking of marrying her.”
“Well,” cried Saturninus, who had just this evening begun thinking about starting a family, “you’ll have to hurry, because I’m in line too!”
FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
THE EVE OF BATTLE, 648 AVC
THE EVE OF BATTLE, 648 AVC
Though the day had been very warm, to the point where most of the men had taken off their thick woolen cloaks and marched bare-armed, it cooled nicely during the night. Spurius Dellius’s scouts had spotted the German mass—they didn’t even scout ahead—three days ago, and the Roman army had been creeping closer and shadowing the Germans since then. Now they were very close, but still hadn’t been detected; according to the big man, tomorrow was the big day.
The men had finished constructing their big, mighty, well-fortified field camp about an hour ago. It was one mile long on two sides, and one and a half miles long on the other two, because more space was needed for the cavalry, and Spurius Dellius wanted his horses comfortable and rested on the morrow. There were enough food and supplies to last a few months at least, and deep wells had been dug for every eventuality; every general worth his salt knew the dangers of static shallow wells. The copious amounts of man and horse and pack animal shit dumped outside of camp several times a day would end up contaminating the groundwater within the week; if the Germans found the Romans and surrounded them tomorrow—not likely, but a possibility nonetheless—then the Romans would need clean drinking water for a long time.
Now they dozed or told jokes and sang or played dice or checked and cleaned and repaired equipment or wrote letters to home. Sulla walked among them, as was his habit, joining into this conversation, telling this or that vulgar joke, winning imaginary coins at dice. He gauged this confidence as very high, for they’d been training for months, and were raring for a good fight; only two legions of them, those who had fought at the Battle of King Nitiogastus, had ever faced large numbers of Germans, and other men wandered over constantly and asked what the Germans looked like and what their battle cries sounded like and what equipment they used and how they fought. It got to be so that those two legions posted guards inside the camp, around the perimeter of their own tent groups, and turned away those seeking information on the Germans.
Of course, those turned away then got their descriptions secondhand from men who’d already gotten exaggerated descriptions. Soon the Germans were all golden-haired giants, seven feet tall and wielding great axes and spears made of elephant tusks—nobody bothered wondering how Germans in Gaul could have gotten to tusks from Africa and India—who gave bloodcurdling shrieks that pierced the souls. These young fighting men, of course, were afraid of nothing, and these stories only amused them; it was a good thing, thought Sulla, for them to trivialize the Germans’ strength. They would need morale tomorrow, no matter how well they had trained and how good they felt.
As activity wound down and men began to turn in for the night, hearts pounding and minds racing at the thought of the likely battle tomorrow, Sulla played a last game of dice and headed back to the central command tent, a wide, long wooden affair that was full of light and men. Marcus Porcius Cato Licinianus, the duty officer that night, sat tight-lipped and unmoving, staring off into space; he gave a start when the brilliant flash of Sulla’s hair came toward him out of the night, and then sighed, waving his arm toward the tent flap behind him.
Sulla grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Marcus Porcius; it’s only life and death!” he said as he clandestinely dropped a full wineskin into the young man’s lap. He headed inside and young Cato, after lifting the skin and thinking a moment or two, unstoppered it and began to drink.
The tent was packed tight with the big man, legates, tribunes of the soldiers, primus pilus centurions, the praefectus fabrum, and a few of the most knowledgeable and helpful clerks and staff members. Men turned to look and stepped aside as Sulla gently pushed or tapped them, and he was soon at the front of the gathering. “Lucius Cornelius!” barked Spurius Dellius. “So you’ve joined us.”
“That I have,” Sulla nodded, leaning over to inspect the brand new map, a very detailed depiction of the area nearby, that the scouts had drawn this very day. A rough circle of small plain brown figurines squatted at one end of the map, between two wooded hills—the Germans; at the other end, on the hidden slope of a bald hill and thus hidden from the Germans, were orderly rows of sculpted red figurines—the Romans. Sulla raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded appreciatively. “Good job,” he said to Gaius Catarius, a young scout and among the legion’s best artists.
“Thank you, Lucius Cornelius,” he said gravely.
“Well,” said Spurius Dellius after this exchange, “as I was saying, we shall use our infantry to hold their line, and our cavalry to manage the sides. I’ll want you”—he said this to the cavalry commanders—“to scissor back and forth, charge in and out; make the buggers afraid to come near you. You’re to hold their flanks in, and let our infantry mow them down.”
“Where? Surely not on flat ground,” said Marcus Antonius Gallus, frowning.
“No, not on flat ground. We’ll simply reveal ourselves on the top of this hill and wait. Their women and children and wagons are closest to us; if they don’t make a move, we can just swoop in—and they know it, too—and pick them off quickly, withdrawing quicker than any other army in the world.”
“Why not wait and find our own Thermopylae?” asked Gaius Claudius Pulcher, who was more of a political than military man.
“You’re forgetting,” butted in Marcus Livius Drusus, “that the Spartans all died at Thermopylae. In any case, this terrain isn’t nearly as difficult, and I doubt that the Germans will move towards the mountains.”
Spurius Dellius nodded. “You’ve just saved me a few breaths of explaining, Marcus Livius. That’s exactly why we’ve got to fight them now, head-on. There’s no river or mean crag nearby to protect on of our flanks, just hills. What’s that look, Lucius Aurelius?”
Cotta, whose face was usually impassive and cool, was grimacing. “This is no ordinary enemy, Sir; these buggers outnumber us five to one, maybe more. Catulus Caesar had a flank protected, and yet he was still defeated.”
Lucius Julius Caesar and Gaius Julius Caesar Strabo Vopiscus, Catulus Caesar’s blood brothers, glared at Cotta; Sextus Julius, who was a bit more relaxed, grinned at the strength of their indignation. “I,” said Spurius Dellius heavily, “am no Catulus Caesar.” He knew that he could have added “no offense to you boys,” to Catulus Caesar’s kin, but that would have lowered him to the level of their peer instead of their commander; that could not be allowed.
There was a pause until Piglet, ever the mediator, stepped forward and said, “What about their cavalry? We won’t have the numbers to intimidate their infantry if they have cavalry that needs fighting.”
“A great point, Quintus Caecilius, but a negligible one. Our scouts have found out that their cavalry complement is small compared to ours, and very small compared to their own infantry. It seems as though their horses, so used to the wet—though cold—winters in Germania and Gaul, did not take well to the very dry winter here in Spain, and many caught sick and died.” A cheer went up among the assembled men; a large amount of cavalry to fight was no laughing matter.
“The Gods clearly favor us,” said Sextus Julius Caesar; coming from him, the Flamen Dialis’s brother, it sounded very official, and even prophetic.
“Jupiter Optimus Maximus is on our side,” said Sulla. “There is no doubt of that.”
Randy Andy
Banned
Wow, great updates! I've been lurking for forever and joined up a few days ago because of a TL idea. May I say that this kind of TL, among others, is something of an inspiration!
From Tuareg:
@Tsar Gringo, are you still itching to see who Aurelia Cotta marries?
Well, here's the answer in advance: You'lllll seeeee!
@Tsar Gringo, are you still itching to see who Aurelia Cotta marries?
Well, here's the answer in advance: You'lllll seeeee!
Re post 284
The law is misnamed.
It should be 'de rebus' not 'de res', assuming you wanted a plural 'of the () things'. If you want singular, it would be 'de re'. De takes the ablative.
Assuming 'divina' is being used as a standard adjective 'divine thing(s)', then the preopsitional phrase would be 'de rebus divinis' (or de re divina, singular).
The law is misnamed.
It should be 'de rebus' not 'de res', assuming you wanted a plural 'of the () things'. If you want singular, it would be 'de re'. De takes the ablative.
Assuming 'divina' is being used as a standard adjective 'divine thing(s)', then the preopsitional phrase would be 'de rebus divinis' (or de re divina, singular).
Last edited:
Tuareg would want to know if you want to become his latin expert. If yes, pm me and I'll give you his email.
FOR WANT OF THE HAMMER
THE NOBLE DEATHS OF NOBLEMEN, 648 AVC
THE NOBLE DEATHS OF NOBLEMEN, 648 AVC
The gleaming brown and red line of Roman men shivered on the hill, outlined by the rising sun’s white light. Sulla sat astride his horse, looking back and up the hill at the Roman line, and listened to Spurius Dellius’s final dispositions. “There they are, men,” the big man said to his legates, tribunes, and primus pilus centurions. He waved his arm ahead expansively and needlessly, for they could all see the Germans below.
A loose mass of bare yellow heads stretched on into the horizon; they were less dense—because of the wagons and pack animals—nearer to the Romans, and denser further from the Romans. Sulla could hear the deep shouts of men deep in the German mass, and knew that the Germans were preparing for battle. The women and wagons were slowly being brought into the mass, and surely enough a thick line of bristling spears and waving swords appeared at the front line. Braided waist-length beards waved to and fro, and thick topknots bobbed forward and back as the warriors hopped up and down, shouting unintelligible things—most likely insults and curses—down on the Romans in their own tongue.
Sulla ignored the words and the frenzy—bloodshed and battle would only drown or enhance excitement—and focused on the Germans’ armor and swords. Quite a few, he noted, were wearing Roman helmets, both of the Attic and the regional Italian variety; the Romans, after previous battles with these Germans, had found their dead boys’ gear for the most part intact. Only a few weapons, some trinkets, and food would be missing. Others, because of their topknots or the warm sun, had no helmets; almost every man had a cuirass in Roman or Gallic style, and every man had a shield, though whether it was big and well-made with ornate carvings and gaudy colors or small and plain depended on its owner’s wealth. The cavalrymen—which Sulla couldn’t see yet—would have small shields.
They universally wore warm trousers, which to the Romans meant restricted leg movement; only a few had the greaves or shinguards that were universal in the legions. Sulla would have to make sure to mention that and have it spread that their legs were vulnerable. Of weapons there were all types. Most of the men held spears, though Sulla saw a few axes, too; the second most common weapon was the sword, although there were many types of these. There were ancient, crude, worn German swords, beautifully etched, strong Gallic swords, some very old Greek swords of Bronze, and of course some gladii. These the men swung in a circle above their heads or banged on their shields, and Sulla was relieved that they didn’t know how to fight in the Roman style. The gladius was a short sword, meant for stabbing instead of swinging.
The line thickened down at the base of the hill as the Romans watched silently. And thickened more. The wagons retreated into the distance and two hours had passed almost silently, and still the line thickened and lengthened. “Well, there’s their cavalry,” said Cato Licinianus, breaking the silence. The relatively small complement—about a thousand men—of cavalry raised Spanish dust as it galloped from behind the line; these were the German leaders, the nobles who led them and who made decisions.
“See boys, nothing to be afraid of,” said Spurius Dellius in good humor. He rode halfway back to the troops and roared so that they could all more or less hear him. “See the Germans, boys, and see their cavalry. Those are their leaders, and you can see that they are pitifully few! One leader of intelligence and bearing for every thousand men. We have fifteen thousand leaders, one per man, for every Roman is a natural leader, and is led in turn by Jupiter Optimus Maximus and the love that he holds for Roma and his countrymen. These Germans have no home; they have abandoned the lands of their fathers and come seeking another. Do you know what that means? Their heart’s not in it! You, my brave beautiful boys, are defending your home, and that makes you stronger than the Gods. This day, you are Gods! We are today Gods of War, and we will drive this pestilence from our home!”
The men roared and cheered, glad to have this bit of courage and rationalization, for they saw how thick the German line was. Still, even they could see the Germans jumping up and down and swinging their swords; they would tire themselves out long before the battle.
“Hmmm hmmm hmmm,” hummed Sulla to Quintus Caecilius Metellus Piglet next to him. “How many Germans are down there tiring themselves out? Fifty thousand, would you say?”
“More like a hundred thousand.”
Sulla frowned. “I know it gives confidence to know that they’re tiring themselves out, but there are still half a million or more Germans who I don’t see waving their arms around. They’re back there, look, but they’re standing still and...and eating, it looks like. Relaxing and keeping their strength up.”
“They’ll get tired enough soon, Lucius Cornelius,” said the Piglet, who was feeling very confident, soothingly. “They have to swing those swords up and down, and those spears in and out; all we have to do is stab.”
Sulla nodded, giving in. Still, the illusion gnawed at him. Marcus Antonius Gallus, who had heard the exchange, nudged his horse closer to Sulla’s; he looked worried. “You’re right, Lucius Cornelius. Perhaps they’re smarter than we thought.” Publius Cornelius Grovus behind him was nodding his head, a look of I-told-you-so on his face. Sulla frowned and shrugged, turning away to survey the assembled Germans again.
Their line thickened and lengthened, and the Romans stood silently. Later, Sulla realized that they might have won had they attacked the women and wagons immediately, and went through the unorganized mob at a run, as he had done in Aquitania. The sun was almost at its zenith when Spurius Dellius ordered his legions to march forward, as the Germans weren’t bringing the fight to them and he didn’t want the sun in his men’s eyes. The Roman line as it descended the hill expanded as the rows lessened from ten, to six, to four; it was a thinner line than was ideal, but Spurius Dellius had ordered it last night, to make the Roman line long enough that it was not swallowed. Even with the thinning, now, it looked as though they might be swallowed.
The fifteen Roman legions descended the hillside and into the bowl made by the three hills.
When battle was joined, all was confusion. The Romans had continued forward at a walk as the Germans had run forward, their pent-up energy finally released. The dust this had raised rose above the heads of the fighting men and refused to settle as marching feet, twisting bodies, and moving swords sent it flying high again. None of the men were hungry, but the front line Germans were hot and tired after their hours of aggression and display, and they fell quickly to Roman swords and shields. The Romans unemotionally and mechanically moved on, falling into the rhythm and moving down their opponents; when they moved forwards and bodies were underfoot, they made sure to tread hard on enemy faces and chests with their tough iron-hobnail-soled marching sandals.
In the first half hour of battle very few Romans fell, and men who stumbled or got their swords stuck were pulled back by the men behind them and replaced. The line moved slowly but steadily, so the tired or wounded could get behind the line and sit for a bit, eerily removed from the fighting. They could hear the yelling and the chants and the bang of swords on shields and the rare clang of two swords meeting, and the shuffling of thousands of pairs of boots and sandals, and the trumpet calls of the cornicines which gave the men their orders; yet, all was still and at peace before them if they turned their backs on the fighting.
The next half hour came on, and as more and more of the tired front line Romans were replaced by their brethren in the second or third or fourth lines, so more and more of the tired, hot Germans were replaced by their fresh, rested comrades. The Roman troops, who had found it easy to deflect weak sword strokes and stab into bellies unprotected by slow arms, suddenly found their job much harder as the force of blows staggered them and big German shields moved around quickly to block the Roman thrusts. These men were for the most part men of Rome, or Italians, and some had some recent Greek or Syrian or African blood in them; the Germans, on the other hand, were pure Germans, and so were usually about a head taller and much stronger, with the greater reach to go with it. Sulla saw this immediately, and knew that he, when he became Praetor and Consul and had to recruit men, would go to Italian Gaul and Gallia Narbonensis, where the citizens’ Gallic blood made them taller and stronger than most.
The sun reached its zenith, and the field became hot, especially for February. The bowl that the three hills made prevented any air from entering, and the dust did settle, but only in eyes and mouths, causing not a few men to stop and blink, and die. Thirsty Romans were relieved by their comrades and drained skins from taken from the servants, who galloped back and forth from the camp on mules and donkeys. The cavalry of course had all the horses, and their own servants and grooms sat to the side ready to switch a rider’s horse out. The cavalry battle was going well, as the squadron on the left kept driving the German cavalry off and chasing them to the left, and the squadron on the ride harried the German flank and devastated them especially where they met the Romans.
The Germans continued to fall or, after exchanging a few blows or killing one or two Romans, retreated back into their line and were replaced by another one of their identical—to the Romans—comrades. There were so many Germans that few of them had to fight more than once, though many wanted to for glory and a greater claim of the spoils. Each man assessed the others’ fighting, and judged how well he was doing in comparison. They were not worried, because they knew how the battle would turn out.
The cavalry squadron on the left, which was once again being approached by the German cavalry, turned and chased it a short way, then sped up as the Germans sped up—they were running away, truly running away and leaving the Romans alone! The scout Gaius Catarius and his fellows spurred their horses on and whooped; they smelled German buggers’ blood in the air.
None of the Romans saw it happen; the heads of the Germans and the thick dust meant that they saw nothing, and even Spurius Dellius had abandoned his horse for a good set of sandals and his sword, and was roaring in the swell. The bulk of the German cavalry, some fifteen thousand nobles and wealthier men, who had been sitting and relaxing, looking like any infantrymen in that huge crowd, gave orders that the space be cleared and looked around. There, just ahead and now with a clear shot at them because the warriors had run aside quickly, was the Roman left cavalry squadron that was harrying the German right.
The German nobles, girded for war and standing tall and straight, slapped their horses’ rumps and got them up. These horses, relaxed around men and ridden hard the night before so that they would not be restless today, had lain calmly in the grass, hidden by the thousands of milling men. Now they stood almost as one, were mounted, and shot off across the bowl and between the Roman hill and the right wooded hill behind them [from the German perspective].
The Roman squadron chased the Germans for almost a mile before its leader began to rein in and shouted, “Alright, back to the battle. Our job is to protect the legions.” The men groaned, disappointed at losing this chance to obliterate the thorn in their side, and turned—to see the wide, thousands-strong front of screaming, singing German horse. They froze in place, turned to flee, and were trapped between a thousand German cavalry and fifteen thousand German cavalry.
The men on the Roman left, who had had to turn to avoid being flanked by German swordsmen and spearmen, sighed with relief when they saw the raised dust and outlines of horses and riders coming from the left; truth be told, their line was not far from collapsing. All it required was a hundred or more Germans running out to the left and then wrapping around the Roman line, and they would be done. Sighs of relief and reinvigorated fighting turned to shrieks of terror and dropped weapons as sixteen thousand fresh German cavalry hit the Roman left flank and simply began to roll it up. The German cavalry further back in the line listed right and emerged behind the Roman line.
Chaos reigned as Romans who had had enemies and the sound of battle straight ahead now heard and saw it on the left. The bloodcurdling whoops and howls of the German cavalry made quite a few of the Roman throw their swords high and turn to run, only to hit that same cavalry—and be run over by it. The Germans rolled up the entire flank, sixteen thousand horses and thirty thousand infantry massacring twelve or thirteen thousand Romans.
Some of the Romans managed to get ahead and run back to camp, there to wrestle steeds from the servants and ride away as quickly as possible; others took head blows or fainted from heat and fear, and were thought dead by the Germans; most of them were trampled or suffered grave wounds, and lay dead on the field. Only the right cavalry squadron escaped relatively unscathed, as it saw the last part of the Roman line—the right—to fall as it was wheeling around to charge the German infantry’s left once again. The men, enthusiastic but tired and knowing that all was lost, followed their leader at a headlong gallop away from the field.
The Battle of Three Hills, as it was called for lack of a more appropriate name, was a disaster for the Romans. It occurred on the thirteenth of February, in the year of the Consulship of Gaius Servilius Glaucia and Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla. Fifteen thousand Roman fighting men and three thousand Roman cavalry faced an estimated five hundred thousand German fighting men and fifteen thousand German cavalry; thirteen thousand Romans died on the field of battle, the German dead are unknown.