The Grass Crown (107 page)

“To me it is. If Fortune has deserted me, we may never meet again. Why did you lie to me?”

Young Marius smiled ruefully, looking the image of Julia. “Oh, Father! One never knows what you want to hear! It’s as simple as that. We all try to tell you what we think you want to hear. that’s the penalty you pay for being a Great Man! It seemed more sensible to me to deny it in case you were in one of those moods when you insist upon doing the proper, ethical thing. In which instance, you wouldn’t have wanted me to admit the deed—it would have meant you would have had no choice but to indict me. If I guessed wrongly, I’m sorry. You didn’t give me any help, you know, you were closed up tighter than a snail in dry weather.”

“I thought you were behaving like a spoiled child!”

“Oh, Father!” Young Marius shook his head, tears shining in his eyes. “No child is spoiled who is the son of a Great Man. Think what I have to measure up to! You stride across our world like a Titan and we all scurry about between your feet wondering what you want, how best to please you. None of those around you is your equal, in brains or competence. And that includes me. Your son.”

“Then kiss me again, and go now.” The embrace this time was heartfelt; Marius had never thought to like Young Marius so much. “You were absolutely right, by the way.”

“Right about what?”

“To kill Cato the Consul.”

Young Marius waved his hand about in deprecation. “I know that! I’ll see you on Aenaria by the Ides of December.”

“Gaius Marius! Gaius Marius!” called a fretful voice.

Marius turned back toward the tavern.

“If you’re ready, we’ll go out to my ship now,” said Publius Murcius, still in that fretful voice.

Marius sighed. Clearly his instincts were right to tell him this voyage was somehow doomed; the salty-looking character was a wet fish, not a lusty pirate.

The ship, however, was reasonable in that it was well built and seaworthy, though how it would perform in the open waters between Sicily and Africa if the worst came to the worst and they had to go further than Sicily, Gaius Marius didn’t know. The ship’s chief disadvantage was undoubtedly its captain, Murcius, who did nothing save complain. But they put out across the mud flats and sandbars of that unsuitable harbor just before midnight and turned to follow a stiff northeasterly breeze, just right for sailing down the coast. Creaking and wallowing because Murcius hadn’t loaded enough ballast in lieu of a cargo, the ship crept along about two miles offshore. The crew at least was cheerful; nobody needed to man the very few oars, and the two big unwieldy rudder oars lay in a following sea.

Then as dawn broke the wind veered through half a circle, and came from the southwest at half gale force.

“Wouldn’t it?” demanded Murcius peevishly of his passenger. “We’ll be blown straight back to Ostia.”

“There’s gold says you won’t, Publius Murcius. And there’s more gold says you’ll make for Aenaria.” Murcius’s only answer was a suspicious glance, but the lure of gold was too much to resist; so the sailors, suddenly as full of woes as their master, took up the oars as soon as the big square sail was reefed in.

Sextus Lucilius—who happened to be the first cousin of Pompey Strabo—was hoping to be elected a tribune of the plebs for the coming year. As conservative as his family’s traditions demanded, he looked forward with pleasure to vetoing any and all of those radical fellows sure also to be elected. But when Sulla marched into Rome and took up residence adjacent to the swamps of the Palus Ceroliae, Sextus Lucilius was one of the many men who wondered how it would change his own plans. Not that he objected to Sulla’s action; as far as he was concerned, Marius and Sulpicius deserved to be strangled in the bottom chamber of the Tullianum—or, even better, to be hurled from the Tarpeian Rock. What a sight that would be, to watch Gaius Marius’s bulky body go flapping down onto the needle rocks below! One either loved or hated the old mentula, and Sextus Lucilius hated him. Had he been pressed as to why he hated him, he would have answered that without Gaius Marius there could have been no Saturninus and—more recent crime by far—no Sulpicius.

Of course he sought out the busy consul Sulla and pledged his support enthusiastically, including his services as a tribune of the plebs for the coming year. Then Sulla rendered the Plebeian Assembly a hollow thing; the hopes of Sextus Lucilius were temporarily dashed. The fugitives were condemned, however, which made him feel a little better—until he discovered that, with the single exception of Sulpicius, absolutely no attempt was being made to apprehend them. Including Gaius Marius, bigger miscreant by far than Sulpicius! When Lucilius complained to Scaevola Pontifex Maximus, he got a cold stare.

“Try not to be stupid, Sextus Lucilius!” said Scaevola. “It was necessary to remove Gaius Marius from Rome, but how can you even imagine Lucius Cornelius wants that death on his hands? If we have all deplored his leading an army against Rome, how do you think the vast majority of people in Rome would react to his killing Gaius Marius, death sentence or not? The death sentence is there because Lucius Cornelius had no choice but try the fugitives perduellio in the Centuries, and conviction for perduellio automatically carries the death sentence. All Lucius Cornelius wants is a Rome without the presence of Gaius Marius in it! Gaius Marius is an institution, and no one in his right senses kills an institution. Now go away, Sextus Lucilius, and don’t bother plaguing the consul with such utter foolishness!”

Sextus Lucilius went away. He didn’t bother trying to see Sulla. He even understood what Scaevola had said; no one in Sulla’s position would want to be responsible for executing Gaius Marius. But the fact remained that Gaius Marius had been convicted of perduellio by the Centuries, and was at large when he ought to be hunted down and killed. Apparently with impunity! To get away free! Provided he didn’t enter Rome or any large Roman town, he could do precisely what he wanted. Secure in the knowledge that no one executed an institution!

Well, thought Sextus Lucilius, you have reckoned without me, Gaius Marius! I am happy to go down in the history books as the man who terminated your nefarious career.

With that, Sextus Lucilius went out and hired fifty ex-cavalry troopers in need of a little money—not a difficult thing to do in a time when everyone was short of money. He then commissioned them to search out Gaius Marius. When they found him, they were to kill him on the spot. Perduellio.

In the meantime, the Plebeian Assembly went ahead and elected its tribunes of the plebs. Sextus Lucilius stood as a candidate and was voted in, as the Plebs always liked to have one or two extremely conservative tribunes; the sparks would fly.

Emboldened by his election, impotent though his new office was, Sextus Lucilius called in the leader of his troopers and gave him a little talk.

“I’m one of the few men in this city who isn’t hard up,” he said, “and I am willing to put up an additional sum of one thousand denarii if you bring me the head of Gaius Marius. Just his head!”

The troop leader—who would cheerfully have decapitated his whole family for a thousand denarii—saluted with alacrity. “I will definitely do my best, Sextus Lucilius,” he said. “I know the old man isn’t north of the Tiber, so I’ll start searching to the south.”

Sixteen days after leaving Ostia, the ship captained by Publius Murcius gave up its uneven battle against the elements and put in to port at Circei, a scant fifty miles down the coast from Ostia. The sailors were exhausted, water was low.

“Sorry, Gaius Marius, but it has to be done,” said Publius Murcius. “We can’t go on battling a sou’wester.”

There seemed little point in protesting; Gaius Marius nodded. “If you must, you must. I’ll stay on board.”

This answer seemed a most peculiar one to Publius Murcius, and made him scratch his head. Once on shore, he understood. All of Circei was talking about the events in Rome and the perduellio condemnation of Gaius Marius; outside Rome, names like Sulpicius were hardly known, but Gaius Marius was famous everywhere. The captain returned to his ship quickly.

Looking wretched but determined, Murcius faced his passenger. “I’m sorry, Gaius Marius, I’m a respectable man with a ship to keep up and a business to run. Never in my life have I smuggled a cargo, and I’m not going to start now. I’ve paid my port dues and my excise taxes, there’s no one in Ostia or Puteoli can say otherwise. And I can’t help but think there’s a message from the gods for me in this awful unseasonable wind. Get your things and I’ll help you into the skiff. You’ll just have to find another ship. I didn’t say a word about your being on board, but sooner or later my sailors will talk. If you get going now and don’t try to hire another ship here, you’ll be all right. Go to Tarracina or Caieta, try there.”

“I thank you for your consideration in not betraying me, Publius Murcius,” said Marius graciously. “How much do I owe you for my journey this far?”

Additional remuneration Murcius refused. “What you gave me in Ostia is enough,” he said. “Now please go!”

Between Murcius and the two slaves left on board, Marius managed to get over the side of the ship into the skiff, where he sat looking very old and defeated. He had brought no slave or attendant with him, and Publius Murcius fancied that over the sixteen days he had been a passenger, Marius’s limp had worsened. A complaining man of flat moods though he was, the captain found himself unable to land Marius where he might be apprehended, so they beached the skiff well to the south of Circei and waited several hours until one of the two slaves came back with a hired horse and a parcel of food.

“I am really sorry,” said Publius Murcius dolefully after he and both slaves had exhausted themselves getting Marius up into the saddle. “I’d like to help you further, Gaius Marius, but I dare not.” He hesitated, then blurted it out. “You’ve been convicted of Great Treason, you see. When you’re caught, you have to be killed.”

Marius looked winded. “Great Treason? Perduellio?”

“You and all your friends were tried in the Centuries, and the Centuries convicted you.”

“The Centuries!” Marius shook his head, dazed.

“You’d better go,” said Murcius. “Good luck.”

“You’ll have better luck yourself now you’re rid of the cause of your misfortunes,” said Marius. He kicked his horse in the ribs and trotted off into a grove of trees.

I was right to leave Rome, he thought. The Centuries! He is determined to see me dead. Whereas for the last twelve days at least I have been deeming myself a fool to have left Rome. Sulpicius was right, I had become convinced of it. Too late to turn back now, I kept telling myself. Now I learn I was right all along! I wasn’t dreaming of trials in the Centuries! I just knew Sulla, and I thought he’d have us done to death secretly. I didn’t think him so great a fool as to try me! What does he know that I do not know?

As soon as he was clear of habitation Marius got down from his horse and began to walk; his malady made riding an ordeal, but the animal was useful for carrying his little hoard of gold and coins. How far to Minturnae? Thirty-five miles or thereabouts if he kept clear of the Via Appia. Swampy country alive with mosquitoes, but fairly deserted. Knowing Young Marius was going there, Tarracina he decided to avoid. Minturnae would do nicely—large, placid, prosperous, and almost untouched by the Italian war.

The journey took him four days, four days during which he ate very little once the parcel of food was gone; only a bowl of pulse porridge from an old woman living alone, and some bread and hard cheese he shared with a vagabond Samnite who volunteered to do the shopping if Marius provided the money. Neither the old woman nor the Samnite had cause to regret their charity, as Marius left a little gold with each of them.

Left side feeling like a lead weight he had to drag everywhere with him, he plodded on until the walls of Minturnae appeared at last in the distance. But as he drew closer, approaching from the wooded countryside, he saw a troop of fifty armed men trotting down the Via Appia. Concealed among some pines, he watched as they passed through the gate into the town. Luckily Minturnae’s port lay outside the fortifications, so Marius was able to bypass the walls and reach the dockside area undetected.

Time to get rid of the horse; he untied his moneybag from the saddle, slapped the beast sharply, and watched it frisk away. Then he entered a small but prosperous-looking tavern nearby.

“I am Gaius Marius. I am condemned to death for Great Treason. I am more tired than I have ever been in my life. And I need wine,” said Marius, voice booming.

Only six or seven men were inside. Every face turned to look, every mouth dropped open. Then chairs and stools scraped, he was surrounded by men who wanted to touch him for luck, not in anger.

“Sit down, sit down!” said the proprietor, beaming. “Are you really Gaius Marius?”

“Don’t I fit the general description? Only half a face and older than Cronus, I know, but don’t tell me you don’t know Gaius Marius when you see him!”

“I know Gaius Marius when I see him,” said one of the drinkers, “and you are Gaius Marius. I was there in the Forum Romanum when you spoke up for Titus Titinius.”

“Wine. I need wine,” said Gaius Marius.

He was given it, then more when he drained his cup in a single gulp. After that came food; while he ate he regaled the men with the story of Sulla’s invasion of Rome and his own flight. Of the implications of perduellio conviction he did not need to speak; be he Roman, Latin, or Italian, every man in the peninsula knew about Great Treason. By rights those who listened should have been hustling him to the town magistrates for execution—or doing it themselves. Instead, they heard the weary Marius out and then helped him up a rickety ladder to a bed. The fugitive fell upon it and slept for ten hours.

When he woke he discovered that someone had laundered his tunic and his cloak, washed his boots inside and out; feeling better than he had since leaving Murcius’s ship, Marius scrambled down the ladder to find the tavern crammed.

“They’re all here to see you, Gaius Marius,” said the proprietor, coming forward to take his hand. “What an honor you do us!”