Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 126

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Sulla’s secretary then reminded him that he had been requested to settle the case of a local magistrate accused of embezzling public funds. The magistrate, who wished to defend himself, was in the antechamber, awaiting an interview. Sulla agreed to see him.

The magistrate entered. Before the man could say a word, Sulla ordered the slaves in the room to strangle him on the spot. The slaves were Sulla’s private servants, not assassins; when they hesitated, Sulla became furious and shouted at them. The strain caused an abscess on his neck to rupture. He began to bleed profusely. In the resulting confusion, the magistrate ran for his life.

Physicians came to stanch the bleeding, but Sulla’s end had come. He became confused and lost consciousness. He survived the night, but died the next morning.

Some perverse but powerful inclination-the wish to see a dreadful episode to its bitter end, or the need to be absolutely certain that a terrifying creature is truly dead, beyond any doubt-drove Lucius Pinarius out of his house and into the streets to witness Sulla’s funeral.

The entire city turned out to watch the procession. Lucius found a spot with a good view, and wondered at his luck until he realized why the spot was vacant. A ragged beggar was standing nearby, emitting such a foul odor that all others had been driven away. Lucius ignored the stench. If he could stand the sight of Sulla on his funeral bier, he told himself, then surely he could endure the smell of a fellow human being.

Heading the procession was an image of Sulla himself, a duplicate of the equestrian statue in the Forum. As the effigy passed by, it emitted an odor of spices that overwhelmed even the stench of the beggar. The man looked at Lucius and flashed a toothless grin.

“They say that thing’s made of frankincense and cinnamon and all sorts of other costly spices. They took up a collection from all the rich women in Roma to have it sculpted. They’ll burn it on the funeral pyre along with Sulla. The smoke from it will perfume the whole city!”

Lucius wrinkled his brow. “Sulla’s to be cremated? His ancestors among the Cornelii were always interred.”

“Maybe so,” said the beggar, “but the dictator specified in his will that his remains are to be burned to ashes.” Such men, free to spend their days eavesdropping and collecting gossip, often knew what they were talking about. “You can imagine why.”

“Can I?”

“Think about it! What happened to Marius, Sulla’s rival, after he was dead? Sulla opened the crypt and took a shit on his body! There are those who’d do the same to Sulla, to have their revenge, never doubt it. Rather than give them the chance, he’s having himself cremated.”

Lucius looked sidelong at the beggar. The man was missing his left hand and leaned on a crutch under his right arm. There was a deep scar across his face and he appeared to be blind in one eye.

Following the effigy came the consuls and the other magistrates, and then the whole membership of the Senate, dressed in black. The leading Equestrians followed, then the Pontifex Maximus and the Vestal virgins. Then, by the hundreds, Sulla’s veterans came marching by, outfitted in their best armor and led by young Pompeius Magnus.

Musicians and a chorus of professional funeral singers, all women, followed. The musicians played a mournful tune on pipes and lyres, to which the chorus sang a song in praise of Sulla.

Mimes followed, breaking the somber mood with their buffoonery. Mimes were traditional at a wealthy man’s funeral, and among these were some of the most famous actors in Roma, members of Sulla’s inner circle since the days of his youth. The beggar felt obliged to point them out.

“Look, there’s Roscius the comedian! I saw him play the Swaggering Soldier once. They say he’s richer than most senators. And that’s old Metrobius, who always specialized in female roles. Played the leading lady in Sulla’s bed for years, they say, until that pretty-boy Chrysogonus took his place; getting on in years, but he still looks good in a stola. And of course that must be Sorex playing the archmime today, dressing up like Sulla and impersonating the dead man. He’s got the walk and hand gestures down perfectly, don’t you think? Let’s hope he doesn’t start chopping off people’s heads!”

The mimes were followed by the procession of Sulla’s ancestors. Men wore the wax masks of the dead and dressed in the ceremonial robes they had worn in life. They held aloft the garlands, crowns, and other military honors Sulla had received in his long, victorious career.

At last the honor guard approached, carrying the funeral bier. Sulla’s body lay upon a couch of ivory decorated with gold ornaments, draped with purple cloth and garlands of cypress. His wife Valeria and the children of his five marriages followed.

The procession appeared to be headed not toward the necropolis outside the Esquiline Gate, but in the opposite direction.

“Where are they taking him?” muttered Lucius.

“Didn’t you know?” said the beggar. “Sulla’s funeral pyre is out on the Field of Mars. His monument’s there as well. They’ve already put it up.”

“The Field of Mars? Only the kings were ever buried there!”

The beggar shrugged. “Even so, Sulla specified in his will that his monument should be on the Field of Mars.”

The last of the procession passed by. Spectators fell in behind. Lucius, grimly determined to see the burning of the corpse, joined the crush. The beggar did likewise, staying close beside him. Forever after, Lucius would remember the man’s stench whenever he thought of Sulla’s funeral day.

As the multitude assembled on the Field of Mars, storm clouds gathered. The sky grew so dark that the men in charge of the pyre nervously conferred. But as quickly as they gathered, the black clouds dispersed. A shaft of golden sunlight shone down on the bier atop the pyre.

“You know what they’ll say,” whispered the beggar, drawing close to Lucius. His smell had cleared a way for them to stand at the front of the crowd. “They’ll say his good luck followed Sulla even to his funeral pyre. Fortuna herself drove the rain away!”

Speeches were made. Sulla was praised as the savior of the Republic. Tales were recounted to demonstrate his virtue and genius. The words were like the buzzing of locusts in Lucius’s ears.

The pyre was lit. The flames reached higher and higher. Lucius was so close that the heat blasted his face and cinders swirled about him. The beggar pointed at the monument nearby, an imposing crypt the size of a small temple. He said something, but amid the crackle of flames Lucius could not hear. Lucius frowned and shook his head. The beggar spoke louder, almost shouting.

“What does it say? The inscription across the pediment of the temple? They say that Sulla composed his own epitaph.”

Waves of heated air obscured the view, but by squinting Lucius could make out the letters. He read aloud, “‘No friend ever did him a kindness, and no enemy ever did him a wrong, without being fully repaid.’”

The beggar cackled with laughter. Lucius stared at the man, feeling pity and revulsion. “Who are you?” he said.

“Me? Nobody. Everybody. One of Sulla’s enemies who received his full payment, I suppose. I was a soldier. Fought for Cinna, then for Marius-always against Sulla, though for no particular reason. And look at me now! Sulla paid me back in full. What about you, citizen? Dressed in your fancy clothes, looking spruce and sleek, with all your limbs intact; I suppose you were one of his friends. Did Sulla give you your just deserts?”

Lucius was carrying a small coin purse. He began to reach into it, then thought better and gave the whole thing to the beggar. Before the man could thank him, Lucius disappeared into the crowd. He made his way through the throng and back to the city.

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