Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 124

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One day a visitor came to the house, attended by many bodyguards. He was a beautiful young man with a mane of golden hair. Lucius recognized him: Chrysogonus, an actor who had become one of Sulla’s favorites. Ever since he was young, Sulla had had a weakness for actors, and especially for blonds. Chrysogonus was dressed in a tunic made of a sumptuous green fabric embroidered with silver stitching. The garment must have cost a fortune, Lucius thought. He wondered who had died so that Sulla’s catamite could wear it.

“I won’t stay long,” said Chrysogonus, gazing about the vestibule with a practiced eye, as if scrutinizing a property that might someday be his. “My friend Felix sends you a message.”

Lucius could barely stifle his disgust at hearing a former slave and actor speak so familiarly of the most powerful man in Roma. Chrysogonus, sensing his disdain, fixed him with a cold stare. Lucius’s mouth turned dry. “What does Sulla say?”

“Your wife’s brother will be spared-”

“You’re certain?” Julia, who had remained out of sight, rushed to Lucius’s side.

“If you will allow me to finish?” Chrysogonus raised an eyebrow. “Gaius Julius Caesar will be spared-but only on the condition that my friend Felix is able to meet with him face to face.”

“So that he can see the boy beheaded with his own eyes?” snapped Lucius.

Chrysogonus gave him a baleful look. “The dictator will call on you tonight. If he sincerely wishes to receive the dictator’s pardon, the young Caesar will be here.” With a theatrical flair, Chrysogonus spun about on his heel and departed, surrounded by his bodyguards.

A festive retinue appeared in the street outside Lucius’s house that night. Chrysogonus was among them, along with several other actors and mimes, male and female; they laughed and joked among themselves, as if out for a carefree stroll by torchlight. The bodyguards looked more like trouble-loving street toughs than staid, sober lictors. Sobriety was in short supply. Several members of the party were obviously drunk.

Perusing the group through the peephole of his front door, Lucius shook his head.

Sulla himself arrived in a curtained red litter carried by a phalanx of burly slaves. One of them dropped to his hands and knees so that the dictator could use his back as a step to descend to the street. Seeing him, Lucius sucked in a breath, appalled that the fate of the Republic and its citizens should rest in the hands of such a decayed specimen. Once strappingly muscular, the very image of a dashing Roman general, Sulla had grown jowly and fat. His complexion had always been splotchy-“mulberries covered with oatmeal,” as some described it-but now a skein of spidery red veins had been added to his blemishes.

The dictator banged his fist against the door. Lucius stepped back and nodded to a slave to open it, then stood straight to greet his visitor. Sulla stepped past him and entered the vestibule without a word, alone, bringing not a single bodyguard with him. Did he think himself invulnerable? He had named himself Felix, after all.

Gaius awaited him in the atrium. Physically, the young man could not have presented a greater contrast to the dictator. Naturally slender, with a long face, Gaius had been rendered even leaner by his illness, and his bright eyes glittered with fever. Despite his weakness, his bearing was fearless. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin held high. For the occasion he wore a toga borrowed from Lucius. Even with Julia’s nips and tucks, it hung on him loosely.

While Lucius stood to one side, Sulla gave Gaius a long, appraising look. He stepped closer.

“So this is young Caesar,” he finally said. “I stare, and you stare back at me. I frown, but you do not blanch. Who do you think you are, young man?”

“I am Gaius Julius Caesar. I am the son of my father, who was praetor. I am the scion of the Julii, an ancient patrician house. We trace our lineage back to Venus herself.”

“Maybe so. But when I look at you, young man, I see another Marius.”

Lucius held his breath. His heart pounded in his chest. Did Sulla intend to kill Gaius with his bare hands?

The dictator laughed. “Nonetheless, I have decided to spare you, and so I shall-as long as my conditions are met.”

Lucius stepped forward. “Dictator, you requested that young Caesar should meet you face and face, and here he is. What more…?”

“First and foremost,” said Sulla, speaking to Gaius, “you must divorce your wife, Cornelia. And then-”

“Never.” Gaius stood still. His face showed no emotion, but his voice was adamant.

Sulla raised an eyebrow. His fleshy forehead was creased with furrows. “I repeat: You must divorce Cornelia. In your marriage, the houses of my enemies Marius and Cinna are combined. I cannot have such a union-”

“I refuse.”

“You what?”

“I refuse. Even a dictator cannot make such a demand of a Roman citizen.”

Sulla stared at him blankly. His florid complexion became even redder. He nodded slowly. “I see.”

Lucius braced himself. He felt for the dagger under his toga, and wondered if he would have the courage to use it. What was Gaius thinking, to speak to Sulla in such a way? It had to be the fever, making him delirious.

And then, Sulla laughed, long and loudly.

At last he stopped laughing, and spoke in a tone of wonderment. “Is it Marius I see in you, young man-or myself? I wonder! Very well, then, you may keep your head and your wife. But in return for this favor, it seems only fair that some member of your family must remarry to please me.” Sulla glanced over his shoulder. For the first time since entering the house, he looked directly at Lucius. “What about you?”

“I, Dictator?”

“Yes, you. What are you to this young man? His brother-in-law?”

“Yes, Dictator.”

“And where is the boy’s sister, your wife? I suppose she’s skulking nearby; they usually are. Out with you, woman! Step into the atrium where I can see you.”

Julia emerged from behind a corner, looking very meek.

“Why, she’s the very image of her brother! Very well, she can take her brother’s place. You and this fellow here-what’s your name, again?”

“Lucius Pinarius, Dictator.”

“You and Lucius Pinarius shall divorce at once. Since it’s a patrician marriage, certain formalities must be observed. I give you two days, no more. Do you both understand?”

“Dictator, please,” whispered Lucius. “I beg you-”

“After your marriage is dissolved, I don’t care what you do, Pinarius. But you, Julia, must remarry at once. You’re the niece of Marius, just as your brother is his nephew, and I must keep a watch on all you Julii. But whom shall you marry? Let me think.” He tapped his forehead, then snapped his fingers. “Quintus Pedius! Yes, just the fellow.”

“I don’t even know him!” said Julia. She was on the verge of tears.

“Well, soon you shall know him very well indeed!” Sulla smiled broadly. “There, it’s settled. Young Caesar’s name will be removed from the upcoming proscription lists. Even so, I’d advise you to get out of town for a while; accidents happen. Also, young Caesar may keep his wife. Meanwhile, you two shall divorce-”

“Dictator-”

“Please, call me Felix.”

“Lucius Cornelius Sulla-Felix-I beg you to reconsider. My wife and I are deeply devoted to one another. Our marriage is a-” He wanted to declare that their marriage was a love match, but it seemed obscene to speak of love in front of Sulla. “We have a young son. He’s still suckling at his mother’s breast-”

Sulla shrugged. “Then let the child stay with his mother. You shall give up all claims to him. Let Quintus Pedius adopt him.”

Lucius gaped, too stunned to speak. Julia began to sob.

Gaius stepped forward, unsteady on his feet. He was the color of chalk. “Dictator, I see that I was wrong to oppose you. I shall do as you asked. I shall divorce Cornelia-”

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