The First Man in Rome (23 page)

"I heard you came back yesterday," she said, not moving toward him.

"Got your spies out, have you?" he asked, refusing to move closer to her.

"That isn't necessary in our street, Lucius Cornelius. The servants know everything," she said.

"Well, I hope you don't think I came here looking for you today, because I didn't. I came here for a little peace."

Her beauty actually increased, though he hadn't thought it possible. My honey-girl, he thought. Julilla. It dropped like honey off the tongue. So did Venus.

"Does that mean I disturb your peace?" she asked, very sure of herself for one so young.

He laughed, contriving to make it sound light, amused, trifling. "Ye gods, baby girl, you have a lot of growing up to do!" he said, and laughed again. "I said I came here for peace. That means I thought I'd find it here, doesn't it? And by logical progression, the answer must be that you don't disturb my peace one iota."

She fought back. "Not at all! It might simply indicate that you didn't expect to find me here."

"Which leads straight back to indifference," he said.

It was an unequal contest, of course; before his eyes she was shrinking, losing her luster, an immortal turned mortal. Her face puckered, but she managed not to cry, just gazed at him bewildered, not able to reconcile how he looked and what he said with the true instinct of her heart, which told her in every beat that she had caught him in her toils.

"I love you!" she said, as if it explained everything.

Another laugh. "Fifteen! What would you know of love?"

"I'm sixteen!" she said.

"Look, baby girl," Sulla said, his tone cutting, "leave me alone! Not only are you a nuisance, you're rapidly becoming an embarrassment." And turned, and walked away without once looking back.

Julilla didn't collapse in floods of tears; it would have been better for her future welfare had she. For a passionate and painful bout of tears might have convinced her that she was wrong, that she stood no chance to capture him. As it was, she walked across to where Chryseis, her servant girl, was standing pretending to be absorbed in the prospect of an empty Circus Maximus. Her chin was up; so was her pride.

"He's going to be difficult," she said, "but never mind. Sooner or later I shall get him, Chryseis."

"I don't think he wants you," said Chryseis.

"Of course he wants me!" said Julilla scornfully. "He wants me
desperately]"

Long acquaintance with Julilla put a curb on Chryseis's tongue; instead of trying to reason with her mistress, she sighed, shrugged. "Have it your own way," she said.

"I usually do," answered Julilla.

They began to walk home, the silence between them unusual, for they were much of an age, and had grown up together. But when they reached the great temple of Magna Mater, Julilla spoke, voice determined.

"I shall refuse to eat," she said.

Chryseis stopped. "And what do you think that's going to do?" she asked.

"Well, in January he said I was fat. And I am."

"Julilla, you're not!"

"Yes, I am. That's why I haven't eaten any sweetmeats since January. I'm a little thinner, but not nearly thin enough. He likes thin women. Look at Nicopolis. Her arms are like sticks."

"But she's
old!"
Chryseis said. "What looks good on you wouldn't look good on her. Besides, you'll worry your parents if you stop eating—they'll think you're sick!"

"Good," said Julilla. "If they think I'm sick, so will Lucius Cornelius. And he'll worry about me dreadfully."

Better and more convincing arguments Chryseis could not produce, for she was neither very bright nor very sensible. So she burst into tears, which pleased Julilla enormously.

Four days after Sulla returned to Clitumna's house, Lucius Gavius Stichus came down with a digestive disorder which prostrated him; alarmed, Clitumna called in half a dozen of the Palatine's most fashionable doctors, all of whom diagnosed an attack of food poisoning.

"Vomiting, colic, diarrhoea—a classic picture," said their spokesman, the Roman physician Publius Popillius.

"But he hasn't eaten anything the rest of us haven't!" protested Clitumna, her fears unallayed. "In fact, he isn't eating nearly as well as the rest of us, and that's what's worrying me most!"

"Ah,
domina,
I think you are quite wrong," lisped the nosiest of them, Athenodorus Siculus, a practitioner with the famous Greek investigative persistence; he had wandered off and poked into every room opening off the atrium, then into the rooms around the peristyle-garden. "Surely you are aware that Lucius Gavius has half a sweetmeat shop in his study?"

"Pish!" squeaked Clitumna. "Half a sweetmeat shop, indeed! A few figs and pastries, that's all. In fact, he hardly ever touches them."

The six learned medical men looked at each other. '
'Domina,
he eats them all day and half the night, so your staff tell me," said Athenodorus the Greek from Sicily. "I suggest you persuade him to give up his confectioneries. If he eats better foods, not only will his digestive troubles clear up, but his general level of health will improve."

Lucius Gavius Stichus was privy to all this, lying on his bed too weak from the violence of his purging to defend himself, his slightly protruding eyes jumping from one face to another as the conversation jumped from one speaker to another.

"He has pimples, and his skin is a bad color," said a Greek from Athens. "Does he exercise?"

"He doesn't need to," said Clitumna, the first hint of doubt appearing in her tone. "He rushes about from place to place in the course of his business, it keeps him constantly on the run, I do assure you!"

"What is your business, Lucius Gavius?" asked the Spaniard.

"I'm a slaver," said Stichus.

Since all save Publius Popillius had started life in Rome as slaves, more jaundice appeared suddenly in their eyes than they could find in Lucius Gavius's, and they moved away from his vicinity under pretext that it was time to leave.

"If he wants something sweet, then let him confine himself to the honeyed wine," said Publius Popillius. "Keep him off solid foods for a day or two more, and then when he's feeling hungry again, let him have a normal diet. But mind—I said normal,
domina!  
Beans, not sweetmeats. Salads, not sweetmeats. Cold collations, not sweetmeats."

Stichus's condition did improve over the next week, but he never got fully well. Eat nothing but nourishing and wholesome foods though he did, still he suffered from periodic bouts of nausea, vomiting, pain, and dysentery, none as severe as his initial attack, all debilitating. He began to lose weight, just a little at a time, so that no one in the house really noticed.

By the end of summer he couldn't drag himself as far as his office in the Porticus Metelli, and the days he fancied lying on a couch in the sun grew fewer and further apart. The fabulous illustrated book Sulla had given him ceased to interest him, and food of any kind became an ordeal to consume. Only the honeyed wine could he tolerate, and not always even that.

By September every medical practitioner in Rome had been called to see him, and many and varied were the diagnoses, not to mention the treatments, especially after Clitumna began to resort to quacks.

"Let him eat what he wants," said one doctor.

"Let him eat nothing and starve it out," said another.

"Let him eat nothing but beans," said a doctor of the Pythagorean persuasion.

"Be consoled," said the nosy Greek doctor, Athenodorus Siculus. "Whatever it is, it's obviously not contagious.
I
believe it is a malignancy in the upper bowel. However, make sure those who come in physical contact with him or have to empty his chamber pot wash their hands thoroughly afterward, and don't let them near the kitchen or the food."

Two days later, Lucius Gavius Stichus died. Beside herself with grief, Clitumna fled Rome immediately after the funeral, begging Sulla and Nicopolis to come with her to Circei, where she had a villa. But though Sulla escorted her down to the Campanian seashore, he and Nicopolis refused to leave Rome.

When he returned from Circei, Sulla kissed Nicopolis and moved out of her suite of rooms.

"I'm resuming tenancy of the study and my own sleeping cubicle," he said. "After all, now that Sticky Stichy is dead, I'm the closest thing she has to a son." He was sweeping the lavishly illustrated scrolls into a burning bucket; face twisting in disgust, he held up one hand to Nicopolis, who was watching from the doorway of the study. "Look at that! Not an inch of this room that isn't sticky!"

The carafe of honeyed wine stood in a caked ring on the priceless citrus-wood console against one wall. Lifting it, Sulla looked down at the permanently ingrained mark amid the exquisite whorls of the wood, and hissed between his teeth.

"What a cockroach! Goodbye, Sticky Stichy!"

And he pitched the carafe through the open window onto the peristyle colonnade. But it flew farther than that, and broke into a thousand shards on the plinth of Sulla's favorite statue, Apollo pursuing the dryad Daphne. A huge star of syrupy wine marred the smooth stone, and began to trickle down in long runnels which soaked into the ground. Darting to the window to look, Nicopolis giggled.

"You're right," she said. "What a cockroach!" And sent her little serving maid Bithy to clean the pedestal with rag and water.

No one noticed the traces of white powder adhering to the marble, for it too was white. The water did its work: the powder vanished.

"I'm glad you missed the actual statue," said Nicopolis, sitting on Sulla's knee, both of them watching Bithy as she washed away.

"I'm sorry," said Sulla, but looked very pleased.

"Sorry? Lucius Cornelius, it would have ruined all that wonderful paintwork! At least the plinth is plain marble."

His upper lip curled back to show his teeth. "Bah! Why is that I seem permanently surrounded by tasteless fools?" he asked, tipping Nicopolis off his lap.

The stain was completely gone; Bithy wrung out her rag and emptied her basin into the pansies.

"Bithy!" Sulla called. "Wash your hands, girl, and I mean wash them properly! You don't know what Stichus died of, and he was very fond of honeyed wine. Go on, off you go!"

Beaming because he noticed her, Bithy went.

7

"I discovered a most interesting young man today," said Gaius Marius to Publius Rutilius Rufus. They were sitting in the precinct of the temple of Telluson the Carinae, for it lay next door to Rutilius Rufus's house, and on this windy autumn day it offered some welcome sun.

"Which is more than my peristyle does," Rutilius Rufus had explained as he conducted his visitor toward a wooden bench in the grounds of the spacious but shabby-looking temple. "Our old gods are neglected these days, especially my dear neighbor Tellus," he meandered on as they settled themselves. "Everyone's too busy bowing and scraping to Magna Mater of Asia to remember Rome is better served by her own earth goddess!"

It was to avert the looming homily upon Rome's oldest, most shadowy and mysterious gods that Gaius Marius chose to mention his encounter with the interesting young man. His ploy worked, of course; Rutilius Rufus was never proof against interesting people of any age or either sex.

"Who was that?" he asked now, lifting his muzzle to the sun in shut-eyed pleasure, old dog that he was.

"Young Marcus Livius Drusus, who must be all of—oh, seventeen or eighteen?"

"My nephew Drusus?"

Marius turned his head to stare.
"Is
he?"

"Well, he is if he's the son of the Marcus Livius Drusus who triumphed last January and intends to seek election as one of the censors for next year," said Rutilius Rufus.

Marius laughed, shook his head. "Oh, how embarrassing! Why don't I ever remember such things?"

"Probably," said Rutilius Rufus dryly, "because my wife, Livia—who, to refresh your bucolic memory, was the sister of your interesting young man's father—has been dead these many years, and never went out, and never dined with me when I entertained. The Livius Drususes have a tendency to break the spirits of their womenfolk, unfortunately. Nice little thing, my wife. Gave me two fine children, but never an argument. I treasured her."

"I know," said Marius uncomfortably, disliking being caught out—would he
never
get them all straight? But old friend though Rutilius Rufus was, Marius couldn't remember ever meeting his shy little wife. "You ought to marry again," he said, very enamored of marriage these days.

"What, just so you don't look so conspicuous? No, thank you! I find sufficient outlet for my passions in writing letters." One dark blue eye came open, peered at Marius. "Anyway, why do you think so highly of my nephew Drusus?"

"In the last week I've been approached by several groups of Italian Allies, all from different nations, and all bitterly complaining that Rome is misusing their soldier levies," said Marius slowly. "In my opinion they have good grounds for complaint. Almost every consul for a decade and more has wasted the lives of his soldiers—and with as little concern as if men were starlings, or sparrows! And the first to perish have been Italian Allied troops, because it's become the custom to use them ahead of Romans in any situation where lives are likely to be lost. It's a rare consul who genuinely appreciates that the Italian Allied soldiers are men of property in their nations and are paid for by their nations, not by Rome."

Rutilius Rufus never objected to a roundabout discussion; he knew Marius far too well to assume that what he spoke of now bore no relationship to the nephew Drusus. So he answered this apparent digression willingly. "The Italian Allies came under Rome's military protection to unify defense of the peninsula," he said. "In return for donating soldiers to us, they were accorded special status as our allies and reaped many benefits, not the least of which was a drawing-together of the nations of the peninsula. They give their troops to Rome so that we all fight in a common cause. Otherwise, they'd still be warring one Italian nation against another—and undoubtedly losing more men in the process than any Roman consul has lost."