Fortune's Favorites (58 page)

The anger flared up in Caesar so quickly that he had to drive his nails into his palms to keep his arms by his sides; in all his life he had never had to fight so hard to keep his head. But keep it he did. At a price he was never to forget. His eyes turned to Lucullus, wide and staring. And Lucullus, who had seen eyes like that many times before, lost his color. Had there been anywhere to go he would have stepped back out of reach; instead he held his ground. But not without an effort.

“I had my first woman,” said Caesar in a flat voice, “at about the time I had my fourteenth birthday. I cannot count the number I have had since. This means I know women very well. And what you have just accused me of, Lucius Licinius Lucullus, is the kind of trickery only women need employ. Women, Lucius Licinius Lucullus, have no other weapon in their arsenal than to use their cunni to get what they want- or what some man wants them to get for him. The day I need to resort to sexual trickery to achieve my ends, Lucius Licinius Lucullus, is the day that I will put my sword through my belly. You have a proud name. But compared to mine it is less than the dust. You have impugned my dignitas. I will not rest until I have extirpated that stain. How I obtained your fleet is not your affair. Or Thermus's! You may rest assured, however, that it was obtained honorably and without my needing to bed the King-or the Queen, for that matter. The sex of the one being exploited is of little moment. I do not reach my goals by such methods. I reach them by using my intelligence-a gift which, it seems to me, few men own. I should therefore go far. Further, probably, than you.”

Having finished, Caesar turned his back and looked at the receding siegeworks which were making a ruin of the outskirts of Mitylene. And Lucullus, winded, could only be thankful that the verbal exchange had taken place in Latin; otherwise the oarsmen would have spread its gist far and wide. Oh, thank you, Sulla! What a hornet you have sent to enliven our placid little investment! He will be more trouble than a thousand Mitylenes.

The rest of the trip was accomplished in a stony silence, Caesar withdrawn into himself and Lucullus cudgeling his brains to think of a way by which he could retrieve his position without sacrificing his good opinion of himself-for it was absolutely inconceivable that he, the commanding officer of this war, could lower himself to apologize to a junior military tribune. And, as a satisfactory solution continued to elude him, at the end of the short journey he scaled the ladder up onto the deck of the nearest sixteener having to pretend Caesar didn't exist.

When he was standing firmly on the deck he held his right hand, palm outward, to halt Caesar's progress up the ladder.

“Don't bother, tribune,” he said coldly. “Return to my camp and find your quarters. I don't want to see you.”

“Am I at liberty to find my servants and horses?”

“Of course.”

If Burgundus, who knew his master as well as anyone, was sure that something had gone very wrong during the time Caesar had been away from the fleet, he was wise enough not to remark upon Caesar's pinched, glazed expression as they set off by land toward Lucullus's camp.

Caesar himself remembered nothing of the ride, nor of the layout of the camp when he rode into it. A sentry pointed down the via principalis and informed the new junior military tribune that he would find his quarters in the second brick building on the right. It was not yet noon, but it felt as if the morning had contained a thousand hours, and the kind of weariness Caesar now found in himself was entirely new-dark, frightful, blind.

As this was a permanent camp not expected to be struck before the next spring, its inhabitants were housed more solidly and comfortably than under leather. For the rankers, endless rows of stout wooden huts, each containing eight soldiers; for the noncombatants, bigger wooden huts each containing eighty men; for the general, a proper house almost big enough to be called a mansion, built of sun-dried bricks; for the senior legates, a similar house; for the middle rank of officers, a squarer mud-brick pile four storeys in height; and for the junior military tribunes, the same kind of edifice, only smaller.

The door was open and voices issued from within when Caesar loomed there, hesitating, his servants and animals waiting in the road behind him.

At first he could see little of the interior, but his eyes were quick to respond to changes in the degree of available light, so he was able to take in the scene before anyone noticed him. A big wooden table stood in the middle of the room, around which, their booted feet on its top, sat seven young men. Who they were he didn't know; that was the penalty for being the flamen Dialis. Then a pleasant-faced, sturdily built fellow on the far side of the table glanced at the doorway and saw Caesar.

“Hello!” he said cheerfully. “Come in, whoever you are.”

Caesar entered with far more assurance than he felt, the effect of Lucullus's accusation still lingering in his face; the seven who stared at him saw a deadly Apollo, not a lyrical one. The feet came down slowly. After that initial welcome, no one said a word. Everyone just stared.

Then the pleasant-faced fellow got to his feet and came round the table, his hand outstretched. “Aulus Gabinius,” he said, and laughed. “Don't look so haughty, whoever you-are! We've got enough of those already.”

Caesar took the hand, shook it strongly. “Gaius Julius Caesar,” he said, but could not answer the smile. “I think I'm supposed to be billeted here. A junior military tribune.”

“We knew they'd find an eighth somewhere,” said Gabinius, turning to face the others. “That's all we are-junior military tribunes-the scum of the earth and a thorn in our general's side. We do occasionally work! But since we're not paid, the general can't very well insist on it. We've just eaten dinner. There's some left. But first, meet your fellow sufferers.”

The others by now had come to their feet.

“Gaius Octavius.” A short young man of muscular physique, Gaius Octavius was handsome in a rather Greek way, brown of hair and hazel of eye-except for his ears, which stuck straight out like jug handles. His handshake was nicely firm.

“Publius Cornelius Lentulus-plain Lentulus.” One of the haughty ones, obviously, and a typical Cornelian-brown of coloring, homely of face. He looked as if he had trouble keeping up, yet was determined to keep up-insecure but dogged.

“The fancy Lentulus-Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Niger. We call him Niger, of course.” Another of the haughty ones, another typical Cornelian. More arrogant than plain Lentulus.

“Lucius Marcius Philippus Junior. We call him Lippus–he's such a snail.” The nickname was an unkindness, as Lippus did not have bleary eyes; rather, his eyes were quite magnificently large and dark and dreamy, set in a far better-looking face than Philippus owned-from his Claudian grandmother, of course, whom he resembled. He gave an impression of easygoing placidity and his handshake was gentle, though not weak.

“Marcus Valerius Messala Rufus. Known as Rufus the Red.” Not one of the haughty ones, though his patrician name was very haughty. Rufus the Red was a red man-red of hair and red of eye. He did not, however, seem to be red of disposition.

“And, last as usual because we always seem to look over the top of his head, Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus.”

Bibulus was the haughtiest one of all, perhaps because he was by far the smallest, diminutive in height and in build. His features lent themselves to a natural expression of superiority, for his cheekbones were sharp, as was his bumpy Roman nose; the mouth was discontented and the brows absolutely straight above slightly prominent, pale grey eyes. Hair and brows were white-fair, having no gold in them, which made him seem older than his years, numbering twenty-one.

Very occasionally two individuals upon meeting generate in that first glance a degree of dislike which has no foundation in fact or logic; it is instinctive and ineradicable. Such was the dislike which flared between Gaius Julius Caesar and Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus in their first exchange of glances. King Nicomedes had spoken of enemies-here was one, Caesar was sure.

Gabinius pulled the eighth chair from its position against the wall and set it at the table between his own and Octavius's.

“Sit down and eat,” he said.

“I'll sit, gladly, but forgive me if I don't eat.”

“Wine, you'll have some wine!”

“I never touch it.”

Octavius giggled. “Oh, you'll love living here!” he cried. “The vomit is usually wall to wall.”

“You're the flamen Dialis!” exclaimed Philippus's son.

“I was the flamen Dialis,” said Caesar, intending to say no more. Then he thought better of that, and went on, “If I give you the details now, no one need ever ask about it again.” He told the story crisply, his words so well chosen that the rest of them-no scholars, any-soon realized the new tribune was an intellectual, if not a scholar.

“Quite a tale,” said Gabinius when it was over.

“So you're still married to Cinna's daughter,” said Bibulus.

“Yes.”

“And,” said Octavius, giving a whoop of laughter, “we are now hopelessly locked in the ancient combat, Gabinius! Caesar makes it four patricians! War to the death!”

The rest gave him withering glances, and he subsided.

“Just come out from Rome, have you?” asked Rufus.

“No, from Bithynia.”

“What were you doing in Bithynia?” asked plain Lentulus.

“Gathering a fleet for the investment of Mitylene.”

“I'll bet that old pansy Nicomedes liked you,” sneered Bibulus. Knowing that it was a breach of manners calculated to offend most of those in the room, he had tried not to say it; but somehow his tongue could not resist.

“He did, as a matter of fact,” said Caesar coolly.

“Did you get your fleet?” Bibulus pressed.

“Naturally,” said Caesar with a haughtiness Bibulus could never have matched.

The laughter was sharp, like Bibulus's face. “Naturally? Don't you mean, un-naturally?”

No one actually saw what happened next. Six pairs of eyes only found focus after Caesar had moved around the table and picked Bibulus up bodily, holding him at arm's length, feet well clear of the floor. It looked ridiculous, comedic; Bibulus's arms were swinging wildly at Caesar's smiling face but were too short to connect-a scene straight out of an inspired mime.

“If you were not as insignificant as a flea,” said Caesar, “I would now be outside pounding your face into the cobbles. Unfortunately, Pulex, that would be tantamount to murder. You're too insignificant to allow me to beat you to a pulp. So stay out of my way, fleabite!” Still holding Bibulus clear of the floor, he looked about until he found something that would do-a cabinet six feet tall. Without seeming to exert much effort, he popped Bibulus on top, gracefully avoiding the boot Bibulus aimed at him. “Kick your feet up there for a while, Pulex.”

Then he was gone, out into the road.

“Pulex really suits you, Bibulus!” said Octavius, laughing. “I shall call you Pulex from now on, you deserve it. How about you, Gabinius? Going to call him Pulex?”

“I'd rather call him Podex!” snapped Gabinius, red-faced with anger. “What possessed you to say that, Bibulus? It was utterly uncalled for, and it makes every one of us look bad!” He glared at the others. “I don't care what the rest of you do, but I'm going out to help Caesar unload.”

“Get me down!” said Bibulus from the top of the cabinet.

“Not I!” said Gabinius scornfully.

In the end no one volunteered; Bibulus had to drop cleanly to the floor, for the flimsy unit was too unstable to permit of his lowering himself by his hands. In the midst of his monumental rage he also knew bewilderment and mortification-Gabinius was right. What had possessed him? All he had succeeded in doing was making a churl of himself- he had lost the esteem of his companions and could not console himself that he had won the encounter, for he had not. Caesar had won it easily-and with honor-not by striking a man smaller than himself, but rather by showing that man's smallness up. It was only natural that Bibulus should resent size and muscularity in others, as he had neither; the world, he well knew, belonged to big and imposing men. Just the look of Caesar had been enough to set him off-the face, the body, the height-and then, to cap those physical advantages, the fellow had produced a spate of fluent, beautifully chosen words! Not fair!

He didn't know whom he hated most-himself, or Gaius Julius Caesar. The man with everything. Bellows of mirth were floating in from the road, too intriguing for Bibulus to resist. Quietly he crept to the side of the doorway and peered around it furtively. There stood his six fellow tribunes holding their sides, while the man who had everything sat upon the back of a mule! Whatever he was saying Bibulus could not hear, but he knew the words were witty, funny, charming, likable, irresistible, fascinating, interesting, superbly chosen, spellbinding.

“Well,'' he said to himself as he slunk toward the privacy of his room, “he will never, never, never be rid of this flea!”

As winter set in and the investment of Mitylene slowed to that static phase wherein the besiegers simply sat and waited for the besieged to starve, Lucius Licinius Lucullus finally found time to write to his beloved Sulla.

I hold out high hopes for an end to this in the spring, thanks to a very surprising circumstance about which I would rather tell you a little further down the columns. First, I would like you to grant me a favor. If I do manage to end this in the spring, may I come home? It has been so long, dear Lucius Cornelius, and I need to set eyes on Rome-not to mention you. My brother, Varro Lucullus, is now old enough and experienced enough to be a curule aedile, and I have a fancy to share the curule aedileship with him. There is no other office a pair of brothers can share and earn approbation. Think of the games we will give! Not to mention the pleasure. I am thirty-eight now, my brother is thirty-six- almost praetor time, yet we have not been aediles. Our name demands that we be aediles. Please let us have this office, then let me be praetor as soon afterward as possible. If, however, you feel my request is not wise or not deserved, I will of course understand.