3. Fortune's Favorites Page 16

  Sulla arrived at Praeneste the following day, the third one of the month of November. Ofella greeted him cheerfully, and gestured toward two sad men who stood under guard nearby. "Know them?" he asked. "Possibly, but I can't find their names." "Two junior tribunes attached to Scipio's legions. They came galloping like a pair of Greek jockeys the morning after you fought outside the Colline Gate and tried to tell me that the battle was lost and you were dead." "What, Ofella? Didn't you believe them?" Ofella laughed heartily. "I know you better than that, Lucius Cornelius! It will take more than a few Samnites to kill you." And with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit out of a chamber pot, Ofella reached behind him and displayed the head of Young Marius. "Ah!" said Sulla, inspecting it closely. "Handsome fellow, wasn't he? Took after his mother in looks, of course. Don't know who he took after in cleverness, but it certainly wasn't his dad." Satisfied, he waved the head away. "Keep it for the time being. So Praeneste surrendered?" "Almost immediately after I fired in the heads Catilina brought me. The gates popped open and they flooded out waving white flags and beating their breasts." "Young Marius too?" asked Sulla, surprised. "Oh, no! He took to the sewers, looking for some way to escape. But I'd had all the outflows barred months before. We found him huddled against one such with his sword in his belly and his Greek servant weeping nearby," Ofella said. "Well, he's the last of them!" said Sulla triumphantly. Ofella glanced at him sharply; it wasn't like Lucius Cornelius Sulla to forget anything! "There's still one at large," he said quickly, then could have bitten off his tongue. This was not a man to remind that he too had shortcomings! But Sulla appeared unruffled. A slow smile grew. "Carbo, I suppose you mean?" "Yes, Carbo." "Carbo is dead too, my dear Ofella. Young Pompeius took him captive and executed him for treason in the agora at Lilybaeum late in September. Remarkable fellow, Pompeius! I thought it would take him many months to organize Sicily and round up Carbo, but he did the lot in one month. And found the time to send me Carbo's head by special messenger! Pickled in a jar of vinegar! Unmistakably him." And Sulla chuckled. "What about Old Brutus?" "Committed suicide rather than tell Pompeius whereabouts Carbo had gone. Not that it mattered. The crew of his ship he was trying to raise a fleet for Carbo told Pompeius everything, of course. So my amazingly efficient young legate sent his brother in law off to Cossura, whence Carbo had fled, and had him brought back to Lilybaeum in chains. But I got three heads from Pompeius, not two. Carbo, Old Brutus, and Soranus." "Soranus? Do you mean Quintus Valerius Soranus the scholar, who was tribune of the plebs?'' "The very same." "But why? What did he do?" asked Ofella, bewildered. "He shouted the secret name of Rome out loud from the rostra," said Sulla. Ofella's jaw dropped, he shivered. "Jupiter!" "Luckily," lied Sulla blandly, "the Great God stoppered up every ear in the Forum, so Soranus shouted to the deaf. All is well, my dear Ofella. Rome will survive." "Oh, that's a relief!" gasped Ofella, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I've heard of strange doings, but to tell Rome's secret name it passes all imagination!" Something else occurred to him; he couldn't help but ask: "What was Pompeius doing in Sicily, Lucius Cornelius?" "Securing the grain harvest for me." "I'd heard something to that effect, but I confess I didn't believe it. He's a kid." "Mmmm," agreed Sulla pensively. "However, what Young Marius didn't inherit from his father, young Pompeius certainly grabbed from Pompeius Strabo! And more besides." "So the kid will be coming home soon," said Ofella, not very enamored of this new star in Sulla's sky; he had thought himself without rival in that firmament! "Not yet," said Sulla in a matter of fact tone. "I sent him on to Africa to secure our province for me. I believe he is at this moment doing just that." He pointed down into No Man's Land, where a great crowd of men stood abjectly in the chilly sun. "Are they those who surrendered bearing arms?" "Yes. In number, twelve thousand. A mixed catch," said Ofella, glad to see the subject change. "Some Romans who belonged to Young Marius, a good many Praenestians, and some Samnites for good measure. Do you want to look at them more closely?" It seemed Sulla did. But not for long. He pardoned the Romans among the crowd, then ordered the Praenestians and Samnites executed on the spot. After which he made the surviving citizens of Praeneste old men, women, children bury the bodies in No Man's Land. He toured the town, never having been there before, and frowned in anger to see the shambles to which Young Marius's need for timber to build his siege tower had reduced the precinct of Fortuna Primigenia. "I am Fortune's favorite," he said to those members of the town council who had not died in No Man's Land, "and I shall see that your Fortuna Primigenia acquires the most splendid precinct in all of Italy. But at Praeneste's expense." On the fourth day of November, Sulla rode to Norba, though he knew its fate long before he reached it. "They agreed to surrender," said Mamercus, tight lipped with anger, "and then they torched the town before killing every last person in there murder, suicide. Women, children, Ahenobarbus's soldiers, all the men of the town died rather than surrender. I'm sorry, Lucius Cornelius. There will be no plunder or prisoners from Norba." "It doesn't matter," said Sulla indifferently. "The haul from Praeneste was huge. I doubt Norba could have yielded much of use or note." And on the fifth day of November, when the newly risen sun was glancing off the gilded statues atop the temple roofs and that fresh light made the city seem less shabby, Lucius Cornelius Sulla entered Rome. He rode in through the Capena Gate, and in solemn procession. His groom led the white horse which had borne him safely through the battle at the Colline Gate, and he wore his best suit of armor, its silver muscled cuirass tooled with a scene representing his own army offering him his Grass Crown outside the walls of Nola. Paired with him and clad in purple bordered toga rode Lucius Valerius Flaccus, the Princeps Senatus, and behind him rode his legates in pairs, including Metellus Pius and Varro Lucullus, who had been summoned from Italian Gaul four days earlier, and had driven hard to be here on this great occasion. Of all the ones who were to matter in the future, only Pompey and Varro the Sabine were not present. His sole military escort was the seven hundred troopers who had saved him by bluffing the Samnites; his army was back in the defile, tearing down its ramparts so that traffic on the Via Latina could move again. After that, there was Ofella's wall to dismember and a vast stockpile of building material to dump in several fields. Much of the tufa block had been fragmented in the demolition, and Sulla knew what he was going to do with that; it would be incorporated into the opus incertum construction of the new temple of Fortuna Primigenia in Praeneste. No trace of the hostilities must remain. Many people turned out of doors to see him enter the city; no matter how fraught with peril it was, no Roman could ever resist a spectacle, and this moment belonged to History. Many who saw him ride in genuinely believed they were witnessing the death throes of the Republic; rumor insisted that Sulla intended to make himself King of Rome. How else could he hang on to power? For how given what he had done could he dare relinquish power? And, it was quickly noted, a special squad of cavalry rode just behind the last pair of legates, their spears held upright; impaled on those lances were the heads of Carbo and Young Marius, Carrinas and Censorinus, Old Brutus and Marius Gratidianus, Brutus Damasippus and Pontius Telesinus, Gutta of Capua and Soranus and Gaius Papius Mutilus of the Samnites.

  Mutilus had heard the news of the battle at the Colline Gate a day after, and wept so loudly that Bastia came to see what was the matter with him. "Lost, all lost!" he cried to her, forgetting the way she had insulted and tormented him, only seeing the one person left to whom he was bound by ties of family and time. "My army is dead! Sulla has won! Sulla will be King of Rome and Samnium will be no more!" For perhaps as long as it would have taken to light all the wicks of a small chandelier, Bastia stared at the devastated man upon his couch. She made no move to comfort him, said no words of comfort either, just stood very still, eyes wide. And then a look crept into them of knowledge and resolution; her vivid face grew cold and hard. She clapped her hands. "Yes, domina? asked the steward from the doorway, gazing in consternation at his weeping master. "Find his German and ready his litter," said Basti
a. "Domina?" the steward asked, bewildered. "Don't just stand there, do as I say! At once!" The steward gulped, disappeared. Tears drying, Mutilus gaped at his wife. What is this?'' "I want you out of here," she said through clenched teeth. "I want no part of this defeat! I want to keep my home, my money, my life! So out you go, Gaius Papius! Go back to Aesernia, or go to Bovianum or anywhere else you have a house! Anywhere but this house! I do not intend to go down with you." "I don't believe this!" he gasped. "You'd better believe it! Out you go!" "But I'm paralyzed, Bastia! I am your husband, and I'm paralyzed! Can't you find pity in you, if not love?" "I neither love you nor pity you," she said harshly. "It was all your stupid, futile plotting and fighting against Rome took the power out of your legs took away your use to me took away the children I might have had and all the pleasure in being a part of your life. For nearly seven years I've lived here alone while you schemed and intrigued in Aesernia and when you did condescend to visit me, you stank of shit and piss, and ordered me about oh no, Gaius Papius Mutilus, I am done with you! Out you go!" And because his mind could not encompass the extent of his ruin, Mutilus made no protest when his German attendant took him from the couch and carried him through the front door to where his litter stood at the bottom of the steps. Bastia had followed behind like an image of the Gorgon, beautiful and evil, with eyes that could turn a man to stone and hissing hair. So quickly did she slam the door that the edge of his cloak caught in it and pulled the German up with a jerk. Shifting the full weight of his master to his left arm, the German began to tug at the cloak to free it. On his belt Gaius Papius Mutilus wore a military dagger, a mute reminder of the days when he had been a Samnite warrior. Out it came; he pressed the top of his head against the wood of the door and cut his throat. Blood sprayed everywhere, drenched the door and pooled upon the steps, soaked the shrieking German, whose cries brought people running from up and down the narrow street. The last thing Gaius Papius Mutilus saw was his Gorgon wife, who had opened the door in time to receive the final spurt of his blood. "I curse you, woman!" he tried to say. But she didn't hear. Nor did she seem stricken, frightened, surprised. Instead, she held the door wide and snapped at the weeping German, "Bring him in!" And inside, when her husband's corpse was laid upon the floor, she said, "Cut off his head. I will send it to Sulla as my gift." Bastia was as good as her word; she sent her husband's head to Sulla with her compliments. But the story Sulla heard from the wretched steward compelled by his mistress to bring the gift did not flatter Bastia. He handed the head of his old enemy to one of the military tribunes attached to his staff, and said without expression, "Kill the woman who sent me this. I want her dead."