Fortune's Favorites (41 page)

“Then you can go now,” said Sulla, unimpressed. “On your way out, send in my secretary, would you?”

His little flash of temper sent Caesar home less grateful for his freedom than he would otherwise have been; and then he found himself wondering if such had not been Sulla's purpose in stipulating that final rather picayune condition about a mule. Sulla didn't want his gratitude, didn't want Aurelia's son in any kind of cliental bondage to him. A Julian beholden to a Cornelian? That was to make a mockery of the Patriciate.

And, realizing this, Caesar ended in thinking better of Lucius Cornelius Sulla than he had when he left that man's presence. He has truly set me free! He has given me my life to do with what I will. Or what I can. I will never like him. But there have been times when I have found it in me to love him.

He thought of the horse Bucephalus. And wept.

“Sulla is wise, Caesar,” said Aurelia, nodding her full approval. ' The drains on your purse are going to be considerable. You must buy a white bull without flaw or blemish, and you won't find such for less than fifty thousand. The feast you have to provide for all of Rome's priests and augurs will cost you twice that. After which, you have to equip yourself for Asia. And support yourself in what I fear will be a punishingly expensive environment. I remember your father saying that the junior military tribunes despise those among them who cannot afford every luxury and extravagance. You're not rich. The income from your land has accumulated since your father died, you've not had any need to spend it. That is going to change. To buy back your horse would be an unwelcome extra. After all, you won't be here to ride the beast. You must ride a mule until Sulla says otherwise. And you can find a splendid mule for under ten thousand.”

The look he gave his mother was not filial, but he said no word, and if he dreamed of his horse and mourned its permanent passing, he kept those things to himself.

The piacular sacrifice took place several days later, by which time Caesar had readied himself for his journey to take up duty under Marcus Minucius Thermus, governor of Asia Province. Though the feast was to be held in the temple of Jupiter Stator, the ritual of atonement was to take place at the altar erected below the steps which used to lead up to the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitol.

Togate (his laena and apex had been given to the priests for storage until they could be laid to rest in Jupiter's unbuilt new temple), Caesar himself led his perfect white bull from his house down the Fauces Suburae and the Argiletum. Though he could have got away with tying ribbons around its splendid horns, Caesar now demonstrated his disregard for economy by having the animal's horns covered in thick gold foil; around its neck garlands of the most exotic and costly flowers were thrown, and a wreath of perfect white roses sat between its horns. Its hooves too were gilded, its tail wound round with cloth-of-gold ribbons intertwined with flowers. With him walked his guests-his uncles the Cottae, and Gaius Matius, and Lucius Decumius and his sons, and most of the Brethren of the crossroads college. All were togate. Aurelia was not present; her sex forbade her attending any sacrifice to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, who was a god for Roman men.

The various colleges of priests were clustered waiting near the altar, and the professionals who would do the actual killing were there too-popa, cultarius, slaves. Though it was the custom to drug the sacrificial animal beforehand, Caesar had refused; Jupiter had to be given every opportunity to indicate pleasure or displeasure. This fact was immediately apparent to everyone; the pure white bull, not a mark or blemish on it, was brisk of eye and step, and swished its tail importantly-obviously it liked being the center of attention.

“You're mad, boy!” whispered Gaius Aurelius Cotta as the waiting crowd grew larger and the steeply sloping Clivus Capitolinus began to level out. “Every eye is going to be on this animal, and you haven't drugged him! What are you going to do if he refuses to behave? It will be too late by then!”

“He won't misbehave,” said Caesar serenely. “He knows he carries my fate. Everyone must see that I bow unreservedly to the will of the Great God.'' There came a faint chuckle. “Besides, I'm one of Fortune's favorites, I have luck!”

Everyone gathered around. Caesar turned aside to the bronze tripod holding a bowl of water and washed his hands; so did the Pontifex Maximus (Metellus Pius the Piglet), the Rex Sacrorum (Lucius Claudius), and the other two major flamines, Martialis (the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Valerius Flaccus) and Quirinalis (a new appointee, Mamercus). Bodies and clothing now ceremonially pure, the participating priests lifted the folds of toga lying across their shoulders and draped them over their heads. Once they had done so, everyone else followed.

The Pontifex Maximus moved to stand at the altar. “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus-if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear-receive your servant, Gaius Julius Caesar, who was your flamen and now wishes to atone for his wrongful appointment, which he wishes to point out to you was not of his doing!” cried the Piglet without a single stammer, and stepped back with a glare of fury aimed at Sulla, who was managing to keep a straight face; this flawless performance had cost the Piglet days of remorseless practice more grueling than military drills.

The professional priestlings were stripping the bull of its flowers and gold foil, patting the latter carefully into a rough ball, and paid no attention to Caesar, who now stepped forward and placed his hand upon the moist pink nose of his offering. The ruby-dark eyes surrounded by long thick lashes as colorless as crystal watched him as he did so, and Caesar felt no tremor of outrage in the white bull at his touch.

He prayed in a voice pitched much higher than his natural one, so that every word would travel. “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus-if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear- you who are of whichever sex you prefer-you who are the spirit of Rome-accept, I pray, this gift of your own sacred animal which I offer you as an atonement for my wrongful appointment as your flamen. It is my prayer that you release me from my vows and grant me the opportunity to serve you in some other capacity. I submit myself to your will, but offer you this best and greatest and strongest living thing in the knowledge that you will grant me what I ask because I have offered you exactly what I ought.”

He smiled at the bull, gazing at him, it seemed, with insight.

The priestlings stepped forward; Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus turned to one side and each took a golden chalice from a tripod, while the Rex Sacrorum took up a golden bowl of spelt.

“I cry for silence!” thundered Caesar.

Silence fell, so complete that the distant noises of busy activity in the Forum arcades of shops floated clearly on the warm and gentle breeze.

The flautist put his instrument made from the shinbone of an enemy to his lips, and began to blow a mournful tune intended to drown out these sounds of Forum business.

As soon as the flute began the Rex Sacrorum sprinkled the bull's face and head with spelt, a thistledown shower which the beast seemed to take as rain; its pink tongue came out and sopped up the granules of fine flour on its nose.

The popa moved to stand in front of the bull, his stunning hammer held loosely by his side. “Agone? Do I strike?” he asked Caesar loudly.

“Strike!” cried Caesar.

Up flashed the hammer, down to land with perfect precision between the bull's mild and unsuspecting eyes. It collapsed on its front knees with an impact heavy enough to feel through the ground, its head outstretched; slowly the hindquarters subsided to the right, a good omen.

Like the popa stripped naked to the waist, the cultarius took the horns in both his hands and lifted the bull's limp head toward the sky, the muscles in his arms standing out ribbed and sinewy, for the bull's head weighed more than fifty pounds. Then he lowered his burden to touch the cobbles with its muzzle.

“The victim consents,” he said to Caesar.

“Then make the sacrifice!” cried Caesar.

Out came the big razor-sharp knife from its scabbard, and while the popa hauled the bull's head into the air, the cultarius cut its throat with one huge deep slice of his knife. The blood gushed but did not spurt-this fellow knew his job. No one- even he-was spattered. As the popa released the head to lie turned to the right, Caesar handed the cultarius his chalice, and the cultarius caught some of the blood so accurately that not a drop spilled down the side of the vessel. Metellus Pius gave his chalice to be filled in turn.

Avoiding the steady turgid crimson stream which flowed away downhill, Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus walked to the bare stone altar. There Caesar trickled the contents of his cup, and said, “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus-if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear-you who are of whichever sex you prefer-you who are the spirit of Rome-accept this offering made to you as an atonement, and accept too the gold from the horns and hooves of your victim, and keep it to adorn your new temple.”

Now Metellus Pius emptied his cup. “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus-if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear- I ask that you accept the atonement of Gaius Julius Caesar, who was your flamen and is still your servant.”

The moment Metellus Pius had clearly enunciated the last syllable of his prayer, a collective sigh of relief went up, loud enough to be heard above the sad tweetling of the tibicen.

Last to offer was the Rex Sacrorum, who sprinkled the remnant of his spelt into the starred splashes of blood on the altar. “O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus-if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear-I bear witness that you have been offered the life-force of this best and greatest and strongest victim, and that all has been done in accordance with the prescribed ritual, and that no error has been made. Under the terms of our contractual agreements with you, I therefore conclude that you are well pleased with your offering and its donor, Gaius Julius Caesar. Furthermore, Gaius Julius Caesar wishes to burn his offering whole for your delectation, and does not wish to take any of it for himself. May Rome and all who live in her prosper as a result.”

And it was over. Over without a single mistake. While the priests and augurs unveiled their heads and began to walk down the slope of the Clivus Capitolinus toward the Forum, the priestlings who were professional sacrificers began to clean up. They used a hoist and cradle to winch the huge carcass off the ground and deposit it upon the pyre, then set a torch to it amid their own prayers. While their slaves worked with buckets of water to wash away the last traces of blood upon the ground, a peculiar aroma arose, a mixture of delicious roasting beef and the costly incenses Caesar had bought to stuff among the brands in the pyre. The blood on the altar would be left until after the bull had burned away to bony ashes, then it too would be scrubbed. And the ball of gold was already on its way to the Treasury, where it would be marked with the name of its donor and the nature and date of the occasion.

The feast which followed in the temple of Jupiter Stator on the Velia at the top of the Forum Romanum was at least as successful as the sacrifice; as Caesar passed among his guests exhorting them to enjoy themselves and exchanging pleasantries, many eyes assessed him that had never so much as noticed him before. He was now by virtue of rank and birth a contender in the political arena, and his manner, his carriage, the expression on his handsome face, all suggested that he bore watching.

“He has a look of your father about him,” said Metellus Pius to Catulus, still flushed with the well-being which stemmed from a ceremony executed without one improperly pronounced word.

“He should,” said Catulus, eyeing Caesar with an instinctive dislike. “My father was a Caesar. Such a pretty fellow, isn't he? I could suffer that. But I'm not sure I can suffer his awful conceit. Look at him! Younger by far than Pompeius! Yet he struts as if he owned the world.”

The Piglet was disposed to find reasons. “Well, how would you feel in his shoes? He's free of that terrible flaminate.”

“We may rue the day we let Sulla instruct us to free him,” said Catulus. “See him over there with Sulla? Two of a kind!”

The Piglet was staring at him, mildly astonished; Catulus could have bitten off his tongue. For an indiscreet moment he had forgotten his auditor was not Quintus Hortensius, so used was he to having his brother-in-law's ear permanently ready to listen. But Hortensius was not present, because when Sulla had informed the priestly colleges who were the new members, he had excluded the name of Quintus Hortensius. And Catulus considered Sulla's omission quite unforgivable. So did Quintus Hortensius.

Unaware that he had offended Catulus, Sulla was busy getting some information from Caesar.

“You didn't drug your animal. That was taking a colossal chance,” he said.

“I'm one of Fortune's favorites,” said Caesar.

“What leads you to that conclusion?”

“Only consider! I have been released from my flaminate-before that I survived an illness men usually die from- I evaded your killing me-and I am teaching my mule to emulate a very aristocratic horse with marked success.”

“Does your mule have a name?” asked Sulla, grinning.

“Of course. I call it Flop Ears.”

“And what did you call your very aristocratic horse?”

“Bucephalus.”

Sulla shook with laughter, but made no further comment, his eyes roaming everywhere. Then he extended an arm. “You do this sort of thing remarkably well for an eighteen-year-old.”

“I'm taking your advice,” said Caesar. “Since I am unable to blend into the background, I decided that even this first banquet in my name should not be unworthy of it.”

“Oh, arrogant! You really are! Never fear, Caesar, it is a memorable feast. Oysters, dug-mullets, licker-fish of the Tiber, baby quail-the menu must have cost you a fortune.”