Текст книги "Roma.The novel of ancient Rome"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

“Now the winner holds the city in his grip,” said Gaius. “He piously vows to restore the Republic and the lawful rule of the Senate, but not before he purges the state of all his enemies and potential enemies, and divides their property among his henchmen.”

Gaius lowered his eyes and gazed into the cup of broth. Because Marius had been his uncle, and because Gaius had recently married Cornelia, whose father Cinna had been another of Sulla’s rivals, he was certain to be counted among Sulla’s enemies.

“That such a monster should rule over us is proof of our decadence,” declared Julia. “The gods are angered. They punish us. In olden times, ‘dictator’ was a title of great honor and respect. Our ancestors were blessed to have a dictator like Cincinnatus, a man who rose up to save the state and then retired. After Sulla, ‘dictator’ shall forever be a dirty word.”

“A monster, as you say,” muttered Lucius, nervously gnawing at his thumbnail. “A madman! Do you remember when the first proscription list was posted? Men gathered at the posting wall to read the names. How shocked we were to see eighty names on the list-eighty! Eighty citizens stripped of all protection, eighty good Romans reduced to animals fit to be hunted down and slaughtered. We were outraged at Sulla’s impunity, appalled at such a number. And then, the next day, there was an addendum to the list-two hundred more names. And the next day, two hundred more! On the fourth day, Sulla made a speech about restoring law and order. Someone dared to ask him just how many men he intended to proscribe. His tone was almost apologetic, like a magistrate who’d fallen behind in his duties. ‘So far, I’ve proscribed as many enemies as I’ve been able to remember, but undoubtedly a few have escaped my recollection. I promise you, as soon as I can remember them, I’ll proscribe those men, as well.’”

“He was making a joke,” said Gaius ruefully. “You must admit, Sulla has a wicked wit.”

“He’s as mad as Cassandra!” said Lucius. “The killing never stops. Every day there’s a new list. And anyone who gives shelter to a proscribed man is automatically proscribed as well, even a man’s parents. The sons and grandsons of the proscribed are stripped of their citizenship and robbed of their property. It’s happening not just in Roma, but in cities all over Italy. Men are being murdered every minute of every day, and every killer is given a reward, even a slave who kills his master, even a son who kills his father. It’s madness-an insult to our ancestors, a crime against the gods.”

“It’s a way for Sulla and his friends to accumulate a vast amount of wealth,” said Gaius. “The first men on the list were genuine enemies, men who’d fought against him in the civil war. Then we began to see other names-Equestrians who’d never taken an interest in politics, or wealthy farmers who never even came to the city. Why were they proscribed? So that Sulla could seize their property. The state sells the goods at public auctions, but the dictator’s friends are the only men who dare to bid.”

“It’s as simple as that,” said Lucius. “Men are being murdered for their property.”

“Men are being murdered bytheir properties,” said Gaius. “I was down in Alba the other day. I rode by a beautiful country house with gardens and vineyards, and the fellow with me said, ‘That’s the estate that killed Quintus Aurelius.’”

Julia groaned. “Gaius, that isn’t funny!”

“Then I don’t suppose you’ll laugh when I tell you that men who’ve committed murder are arranging to have their victims inserted retroactively in the lists. They say Lucius Sergius Catilina pulled that off, after he murdered his brother-in-law. The killing was not only made legal, but Catilina received a bounty for it!”

The grim conversation lapsed for a while. Gaius drank more broth. Lucius pondered the untouched food before him. Julia finally spoke.

“Do you think we can take Sulla at his word, when he promises to lay down his dictatorship and retire to private life? He’ll do so in a year, he says, or at most two years.”

“We can only pray that he’s telling the truth,” said Lucius glumly.

“And what if he is?” said Gaius. “What will have changed, if Sulla steps down? Elections will resume, and the Senate will be in charge again-with all Marius’s men dead and Sulla’s men taking their places. But the state will still be crippled. The things that were broken before the civil war will still be broken, merely patched together with makeshift remedies. Gaius Gracchus, if he’d had the chance, might have sorted things out and breathed new life into the Republic; a petty, vindictive tyrant like Sulla is not the man to accomplish that. It will take someone else to save Roma, someone who can combine the political vision of the Gracchi, the military genius of Scipio Africanus, and a measure of Sulla’s ruthlessness, as well.”

There was a faraway look in Gaius’s eyes, almost as if he were speaking of his own ambitions for the future. That was absurd, thought Lucius. The fever was giving his brother-in-law delusions of grandeur. Gaius should worry about keeping his own head, not daydream about saving the Republic.

“Perhaps,” suggested Lucius, “the man you’re thinking of is Pompeius Magnus.” He referred to one of Sulla’s proteges, a military prodigy only six years older than Gaius. Sulla, who liked pet names-he had dubbed himself Felix, “Lucky”-had taken to addressing young Gnaeus Pompeius, half in jest, half in earnest, as Magnus, “the Great.” The name had stuck.

“Pompeius!” Gaius scoffed. “I hardly think so. He doesn’t have the strength of character to be a true leader.”

“Well…” Lucius raised an eyebrow. He had no affection for Pompeius, but it seemed to him that Gaius was hardly worldly enough to make such a scathing assessment. Gaius read his expression.

“Must I justify the comment? Very well, I need cite only one example to show the fundamental weakness in Pompeius’s character. Other than cutting off heads, what’s Sulla’s most despotic behavior? Arranging marriages for those around him. And not just innocent matchmaking. Against their will, he’s forced women to marry his favorites; that action turns marriage into rape, an offense to the gods. He’s even dissolved existing marriages, forcing spouses to divorce each other and remarry new partners of his choosing.”

“Another symptom of Sulla’s madness,” said Lucius.

“Perhaps. But if Pompeius thinks so, the so-called Great wasn’t great enough to stand up to his master. Sulla told Pompeius to divorce Antistia-a devoted wife, by all accounts-and marry Sulla’s stepdaughter Aemilia, even though Aemilia was already pregnant by her husband! And Pompeius, like the sycophant of some Asian monarch, obeyed without a whimper. This is the man to lead Roma out of the wilderness? I hardly think so!” Gaius shook his head. “I would never submit to such dishonorable, disgraceful behavior to curry favor with another man, no matter what the consequences. Never!”

“Well,” said Julia, seeking to diffuse the tension in the room, “let us pray you never have to face such a dreadful choice. May your marriage to Cornelia be long and fruitful!” She smiled wanly. “When I think of a good marriage, I think of our parents, don’t you, Gaius? They always seemed so happy together. If only the gods had not taken father so swiftly, so suddenly…”

Julia and Gaius had lost their father three years before. To all appearance, the elder Gaius had been a healthy, vigorous man in the prime of life, but one day, while putting on his shoes, he gave a lurch and fell over dead. His own father had also died young, in a similarly sudden fashion. The siblings had felt his loss deeply, and had grown even closer in the years since he died.

Gaius, seeing the look of sadness on his sister’s face, leaned toward her and gently touched her shoulder.

Suddenly, there came a noise from the vestibule, so loud that all three of them gave a start and leaped to their feet. Someone was not merely banging at the door, but was trying to break it down. There was a snap of splintering wood and the shriek of hinges giving way.

Gaius turned to flee, but managed only a few steps. He was too weak to run. He swayed and would have fallen had Julia not rushed to his side.

A gang of armed men barged into the room. Lucius blanched when he recognized their leader: Cornelius Phagites.

Phagites smiled, showing the gap between his crooked teeth. “Ah, there’s the very one I’m looking for-young Caesar!”

Julia stood before Gaius, like a mother protecting her young. Though his knees trembled, Lucius stepped up to Phagites, who was much taller, and raised his chin high.

“You’ve made a mistake. This is my wife’s brother, Gaius Julius Caesar. His name is noton the proscription lists.”

Phagites laughed. “‘Name isn’t on the list!’” he said mockingly. “How often have we heard that one?”

“It’s true! I checked the new lists myself, this afternoon. You saw me when I was coming back from the Forum. Don’t you remember?”

Phagites squinted at him. “Well…if his name’s not on the list yet, it can always be added later,” he said, but in his voice there was a sliver of doubt. Lucius did his best to take advantage of it.

“Taking men on the list is one thing, Phagites. Taking men who aren’t on the list is another. Sooner or later, by his own promise, Lucius Cornelius Sulla will resign his dictatorship. He’s granted himself immunity from prosecution for life, but I doubt that he’s given that sort of protection to you. Well, has he?”

Phagites frowned. “No.”

“Which means that some day there willbe an accounting of…of mistakes that were made. This is such a mistake, Phagites. Gaius Julius Caesar is noton the list. He’s a citizen with full rights, not an enemy of the state. You have no right to harm him.”

Phagites turned to one of his underlings, who produced a scrap of parchment, and together they pored over it for a moment, whispering and sniping at one another. At last Phagites swaggered back. He smirked and looked down his nose at Lucius. “Just how much are you willing to pay me to make sure I don’t make any…mistakes?”

Lucius bit his lip. He thought for a long moment, then whispered a sum.

Phagites laughed. “I don’t blame you for whispering! You ought to be ashamed, offering so little to make sure that nothing bad happens to your wife’s darling brother. Make it four times that amount, and I’ll consider your offer.”

Lucius swallowed a lump in his throat. “Very well.”

Phagites nodded. “That’s more like it. Now, all you have to do is beg me to take the money, and I’ll be on my way.”

“What!”

“Beg me. I have to have some sport tonight, don’t I? Go down on your knees, citizen, and beg me to accept your offering.”

Lucius glanced at Julia, who averted her face. Gaius seemed to have been drained of his last ounce of strength by the sudden panic, and was hardly able to stand. Lucius dropped to his knees. “I implore you, Cornelius Phagites, take the money I offer, and leave us in peace!”

Phagites laughed. He mussed Lucius’s hair. “Much better, little man! Very well, go fetch my money. But you’re striking a fool’s bargain. Your brother-in-law will be dead before the next Ides. Oh, I’ll take your money now, and let young Caesar keep his head; and later, when I do take his head, I’ll get a second payment from Sulla. I shall be paid twice for the same head-on his shoulders, and off!”

Lucius brought the money. Phagites and his men left without another word. Julia was too distraught to speak. Gaius staggered to his dining couch and collapsed on it.

Lucius felt Gaius’s forehead. The young man was again burning with fever.

Despite Gaius’s illness, later that night Lucius and Julia summoned a litter and took him to another hiding place. If Phagites had found Gaius, so might someone else. The fact that his name was not yet among the proscribed clearly was no guarantee of safety.

In the days and nights that followed, despite his lingering ague, Gaius moved from one refuge to another. Meanwhile, the elders of the Julii entered into frantic negotiations with members of Sulla’s inner circle, trying to remove Gaius from danger. Lucius met with the Julii daily, hoping for good news.

The proscriptions continued. New names were added daily. Lucius began to fear that he himself might be added to the lists. He made sure that the door broken down by Phagites and his men was repaired and made stronger than before. He kept a dagger on his person at all times. He purchased a quick-acting poison from a dubious character on the waterfront, and gave it to Julia for safekeeping. Death by beheading would be grisly but swift, he told himself, but he shuddered to think of what might be done to Julia once he was gone. He wanted her to have a means of quick escape. What times they lived in, that a man should have to plan for such contingencies!

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.

“ Ifyou 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 andyour wife. But in return for this favor, it seems only fair that somemember 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-”

“You shall do no such thing!”

“Dictator, it was never my intention-”

“Your intentions mean nothing here. Mywill prevails. Your life is spared. Your marriage is preserved. But your sister and her husband will divorce each other.” He turned to Lucius. “Either that, or I shall see your name in the proscription lists, Pinarius, and your head on a stake!”

With a dramatic flourish worthy of Chrysogonus, Sulla turned about and left the house. His entourage welcomed him back with drunken cheers and laughter. A slave quickly closed the door to shut out the raucous noises.

Lucius stared at the floor. “After all our efforts…all our…sacrifices…our sleepless nights…the bribe I paid to Phagites…the humiliation…”

“Brother-in-law,” whispered Gaius, “I never imagined-”

“Don’t call me that! I’m your brother-in-law no longer!”

From the nursery, the baby began to wail. Julia dropped to her knees, weeping.

Lucius glared at Gaius. “It’s Julia and I who must now pay the price for your pride. To save your neck and preserve your precious dignity, we must give up everything. Everything!”

Gaius opened his mouth, but could find nothing to say.

“You owe us for this!” cried Lucius, pointing his finger at Gaius. “Never forget! Never forget the debt you owe to my son, and to his sons, for as long as you live!”

Gradually, as thousands died or fled into exile, the frenzied pace of Sulla’s proscriptions subsided, but the dictator continued to rule Roma with an iron grip.

His divorce left Lucius Pinarius a bitter and broken man. No one blamed him for his misfortune. Friends, many of whom had suffered terribly themselves, did their best to comfort him, and even praised his sacrifice. “You did what you had to, to save another man’s life,” they said. “You did it for the sake of your son and your wife; had you disobeyed, Sulla would have proscribed you, and your family would have been left destitute.”

But no argument could alleviate Lucius’s anguish and regret. To save his family, he had lost his family. To keep his head, he had surrendered his dignity.

Julia’s new husband, Quintus Pedius, did nothing to bar Lucius from seeing his son, or Julia for that matter, but Lucius was ashamed to face them. To bow before a dictator reduced a man to a status hardly better than a slave; a Roman without honor was not a Roman at all.

It would be best, he decided, if his loved ones considered him a dead man. Let Julia be as a widow who had remarried. Let his son be as an orphan. How much better it would have been if Lucius had died. If only he had caught the quartan ague from Gaius and died of that!

So, like a dead man, he prematurely bequeathed to his son a precious heirloom: the golden fascinum which had been in the family for untold generations. The amulet was very worn, its shape hardly recognizable. Nonetheless, Lucius sent it to Julia with a prayer that it might protect their son from such a disaster as had overtaken his father. The talisman was passed to the next generation.

Having no desire to remarry, despondent and forlorn, he lived alone in his house on the Palatine.

As for Gaius, he took the advice of Sulla and left Roma as soon as he was able to travel. He accepted a military posting on the Aegean coast, serving on the staff of the praetor Minucius Thermus.

Lucius thought about Gaius as little as possible, but one day, while crossing the Forum, he passed a group of men conversing and overheard a stranger mention Gaius’s name. Lucius stopped to listen.

“Yes, Gaius Julius Caesar,” the man repeated, “the one whose father dropped dead a couple of years ago.”

“Poor young fellow! I suppose King Nicomedes makes a dashing father figure, but no Roman should ever bend over to pleasure another man, not even a king.”

“Especially not a king!”

This was followed by salacious laughter. Lucius stepped forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Young Caesar’s escapades in the East,” said one of the gossips. “The praetor Thermus sent him on a mission to King Nicomedes in Bithynia. Once Caesar got there, he didn’t want to leave. It seems he hit it off with the king a little toowell, if you know what I mean. All that high living in the royal court turned the boy’s head-and Nicomedes isa handsome fellow, to judge by his coins. Meanwhile, Thermus is like a spurned husband, sending messenger after messenger demanding that Caesar return, but Caesar can’t bear to leave the king’s bed!”

“How could you possibly know such a thing?” snapped Lucius. “If Caesar’s detained on a mission, there could be a hundred other explanations-”

“Please!” The gossip rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it. Did you hear the latest joke? Sulla let him keep his head-but Nicomedes took his maidenhead!”

There was a great deal of laughter. Lucius, disgusted, stalked away with his jaw tightly clenched. He made his hands into fists. Tears welled in his eyes. Was it for this that he had sacrificed everything? So that a fatuous young man could desert his military post to live in luxury in Bithynia? What sort of Roman was Caesar, to speak admiringly of Gaius Gracchus and daydream about rebuilding the Roman state, and then to run off and play catamite to a Bithynian monarch? Lucius should have let Sulla take the young fool and do what he wanted with him!

78 B.C.

Belying the worst fears of his enemies-those few who remained alive-Sulla made good on his promise to step down from the dictatorship after two years.

Declaring that his work was done, he restored full authority to the Senate and magistrates. In retirement he dictated his memoirs, and proudly boasted that, having rid Roma of the worst of the “troublemakers” (as he called those who opposed him), he had instituted reforms that would return the Republic “to the golden days before the Gracchi stirred the pot and threw everything into confusion.”

But could even Sulla could turn back time? Since the destruction of Carthage, Roman politics had been driven by tremendous wealth and headlong expansion, and the ever-greater injustices and inequalities that resulted. Roma needed powerful generals to conquer new territories and enslave new populations; how else could more wealth be accumulated? But what was to be done when those generals grew jealous and suspicious of one another, and a citizenry riven with greed and resentment was compelled to choose sides? Civil war had resulted once. Nothing in Sulla’s reforms would stop such a war from happening again. If anything, his example was an encouragement to would-be warlords with dreams of absolute power. Sulla had shown that a man could ruthlessly exterminate all opposition, declare his actions to be legitimate and legal, and then retire to live out his days in comfort and peace, beloved by the friends and supporters who had benefited from his largesse.

In the month of Martius, at his villa on the bay near Neapolis, at the age of sixty, Sulla died of natural causes. But his death was not an easy one, and in the revolting symptoms that plagued him some saw the hand of the goddess Nemesis, who restores balance to the natural order when injustice has been done.

The disease began with an ulceration of the bowels, aggravated by excessive drinking and sumptuous living. Then the corruption spread, and converted his flesh into worms. Day and night, physicians picked the worms away, but more worms appeared to take their place. Then the pores of his flesh discharged a vile flux in such quantities that his bed and his clothing were saturated with it. No amount of bathing and scouring could stop the oozing discharge.

Even in this wretched state, Sulla continued to conduct business. On the last full day of his life, he dictated the final chapter of his memoirs, concluding with this boast: “When I was young, a Chaldean soothsayer foretold to me that I would lead an honorable, upright life and end my days at the height of my prosperity. The soothsayer was right.”

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.