Northern Campania was still safe, its allegiance more Roman; Lucius Caesar moved his two veteran legions through Teanum Sidicinum and Interamna in order to approach Aesernia across friendly ground. What he didn’t know was that Publius Vettius Scato of the Marsi had detached himself from the siege of Pompey Strabo in Firmum Picenum and marched around the western foreshores of Lake Fucinus, also heading for Aesernia. He came down the watershed of the Liris, skirted Sora, and met Lucius Caesar between Atina and Casinum.

Neither side had expected it. Both sides fell into accidental battle complicated by the gorge in which they encountered each other, and Lucius Caesar lost. He retreated back to Teanum Sidicinum, leaving two thousand precious veteran soldiers dead on the field and Scato pushing on unimpeded toward Aesernia. This time the Italians could claim a solid victory, and did.

Never wholly reconciled to Roman rule, the towns of southern Campania declared one after the other for Italia, including Nola and Venafrum. Marcus Claudius Marcellus extricated himself and his troops from Venafrum ahead of the approaching Samnite army; but instead of retreating to a safely Roman place like Capua, Marcellus and his men elected to go to Aesernia. They found the Italians completely surrounding it, Scato and his Marsi on one side, Samnites on the other. But Italian guard duty was lax, and Marcellus was quick to take advantage of it. All the Romans managed to get inside the town during the night. Aesernia now possessed a brave and capable commandant, and ten cohorts of Roman legionaries.

Licking his wounds in Teanum Sidicinum as sullenly as an old dog losing its first fight, a depressed and dismayed Lucius Julius Caesar was bombarded with one piece of bad news after another; Venafrum gone, Aesernia heavily invested, Nola holding two thousand Roman soldiers prisoner including the praetor Lucius Postumius, and Publius Crassus and his two sons driven inside Grumentum by the Lucani, now also in revolt, and very ably led by Marcus Lamponius. To cap everything else, Sulla’s intelligence was reporting that the Apuli and the Venusini were about to declare for Italia.

*

But all that was as nothing compared to the plight of Publius Rutilius Lupus just east of Rome. It had started when Gaius Perperna arrived with one legion of raw recruits instead of two legions of veterans during the intercalated February; after that, things went from bad to worse. While Marius threw himself into the work of enlisting and arming men and Caepio did the same, Lupus engaged himself in a battle of the pen with the Senate in Rome. There were elements of insurrection within his own forces and even within the ranks of his own legates, scribbled Lupus furiously, and what was the Senate going to do about it? How could he be expected to conduct a war when his own people were inimical? Did Rome or did Rome not want Alba Fucentia protected? And how could he do that when he had not one experienced legionary? And when was something going to be done to recall Pompey Strabo? And when was someone going to move that Pompey Strabo be prosecuted for treason? And when was the Senate going to get his two legions of veterans back from Pompey Strabo? And when was he going to be relieved of that intolerable insect, Gaius Marius?

Lupus and Marius were encamped on the Via Valeria outside Carseoli in a very well-fortified way—thanks to Marius, who simply went ahead and got the recruits digging—to strengthen their muscles, he said innocently whenever Lupus complained that the men were digging when they ought to be drilling. Caepio lay behind them, also on the Via Valeria, outside the town of Varia. In one respect Lupus was not wrong; no one would see anyone else’s point of view. Caepio kept himself absolutely away from Carseoli and his general because, he said, he couldn’t bear the acrimonious atmosphere in the command tent. And Marius— who had a fair idea that his general would march against the Marsi as soon as he counted enough soldiers in the parades—never let up carping. The troops were hopelessly inexperienced, he said, they would need the full hundred days of training before they could cope with any sort of battle, a lot of the equipment was substandard, Lupus had better settle down and accept things for what they were instead of dwelling endlessly upon Pompey Strabo and the stolen veteran legions.

But if Lucius Caesar was indecisive, Lupus was downright incompetent. His military experience was minimal, and he belonged to that school of armchair general who believed that the moment an enemy set eyes upon a Roman legion, the fight was over—in Rome’s favor. He also despised Italians, considering every last one of them a bucolic knave. As far as he was concerned, the moment Marius had gathered and armed four legions, they could move. However, he reckoned without Marius. Marius clung doggedly to his standpoint: that the soldiers must be kept out of action until they were properly trained. On the one occasion when he issued a direct order to Marius to march for Alba Fucentia, Marius flatly refused. And when Marius refused, so did the more junior legates.

Off went more letters to Rome, now accusing his legates of mutiny rather than insubordination. It was Gaius Marius at the bottom of it, always Gaius Marius.

Thus it was that Lupus made no move until the end of May, when he called a council and instructed Gaius Perperna to take the Capuan legion of recruits and the next-best legion, and advance through the western pass along the Via Valeria into the lands of the Marsi. His objective was Alba Fucentia, which he was to relieve should the Marsi have besieged it, or else garrison it against a Marsic attack. Once again Marius objected, but this time he was overridden; the recruits, said Lupus with truth, had had their training period. Perperna and his two legions set off up the Via Valeria.

The western pass was a rocky gorge lying at four thousand feet, and the snows of winter had not yet entirely melted. The troops muttered and complained of the cold, so Perperna failed to post as many lookouts on the high points as he should have, more concerned to keep everyone happy than everyone alive. Publius Praesenteius attacked his column just as it became completely enclosed by the ravine, leading four legions of Paeligni hungry for a victory. They had their victory, as complete as it was sweet. Four thousand of Perperna’s soldiers lay dead in the pass to yield up their arms and armor to Praesenteius; the Paeligni also got the armor of the six thousand men who survived, as they had abandoned it in order to run away faster. Perperna himself was among the fastest runners.

In Carseoli, Lupus stripped Perperna of his rank and sent him to Rome in disgrace.

“That’s stupidity, Lupus,” said Marius, who had long given up according the general the courtesy of Publius Rutilius; it hurt to speak that beloved name to someone so unworthy of it. “You can’t blame it all on Perperna, he’s an amateur. The fault is yours, and nobody else’s. I told you—the men weren’t ready. And they ought to have been led by someone who understands green troops—me.”

“Mind your own business!” snapped Lupus. “And try to remember that your chief business is to say yes to me!”

“I wouldn’t say yes to you, Lupus, if you presented me with your bare arse,” said Marius, eyebrows matted together across the bridge of his nose, and looking doubly fierce because of them. “You are a totally incompetent idiot!”

“I shall send you back to Rome!” cried Lupus.

“You couldn’t send your grandmother ten paces down the road,” said Marius scornfully. “Four thousand men dead who might one day have turned into decent soldiers, and six thousand naked survivors who ought to be scourged! Don’t blame Gaius Perperna, blame no one but yourself!” He shook his head, slapped his flaccid left cheek. “Oh, I feel as if someone’s sent me back twenty years! You’re doing the same as all the rest of the senatorial fools, killing good men!”

Lupus drew himself up to his full height, which was not very imposing. “I am not only the consul, I am the commander-in-chief in this theater of war,” he said haughtily. “In exactly eight days—today, I remind you, are the Kalends of June—you and I will march for Nersae and approach the lands of the Marsi from the north. We will proceed in two columns, each of two legions, and cross the Velinus separately. There are only two bridges between here and Reate, and neither is wide enough to take eight men abreast. Which is why we will proceed in two columns. Otherwise it will take too long to cross. I will use the bridge closer to Carseoli, you will use the one closer to Cliterna. We will reunite on the Himella beyond Nersae and join the Via Valeria just before Antinum. Is that understood, Marius?”

“It’s understood,” said Marius. “It’s stupid! But it’s understood. What you don’t seem to realize, Lupus, is that there are very likely to be Italian legions west of the Marsic lands.”

“There are no Italian legions west of Marsic lands,” said Lupus. “The Paeligni who ambushed Perperna have gone east again.”

Marius shrugged. “Have it your own way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They moved out eight days later, Lupus taking the lead with his two legions, Marius following on until it came time to continue north alone, leaving Lupus with a shorter march to his bridge across the swift and icy Velinus, swollen with melted snows. The moment Lupus’s column was out of sight, Marius led his troops into a nearby forest and ordered them to make smokeless camp.

“We’re following the Velinus toward Reate, and on the far side of it are formidable heights,” he said to his senior legate, Aulus Plotius. “If I were a canny Italian planning to beat Rome in a war—and I’d had a taste of our abysmal mettle—I’d have my longest-sighted men sitting on top of that ridge watching for troop movements on this side of the river. The Italians must know Lupus has been squatting at Carseoli for months, so why shouldn’t they be expecting him to move, and watching out for him? They annihilated his last little effort. They’re watching for his next, mark my words. So we are going to stay here in this nice thick wood until dark, then we’ll march as best we can until daylight, when we’ll hide in another nice thick wood. I am not going to expose my men until they’re tramping across that bridge on the double.”

Plotius of course was young, but more than old enough to have seen service as a junior tribune against the Cimbri in Italian Gaul; he had been attached to Catulus Caesar, but—as everybody did who served in that campaign—he knew where the real credit lay. And as he listened to Marius, he was profoundly glad that it had been his luck to be seconded to Marius’s column, rather than to Lupus’s. Before they had left Carseoli he had jokingly commiserated with Lupus’s legate, Marcus Valerius Messala, who had also wanted to march with Marius.

Gaius Marius finally reached his bridge on the twelfth day of June, having proceeded at a painfully slow pace because the nights were moonless and the terrain roadless save for a meandering track he had preferred not to follow. He made his dispositions carefully, and in the secure knowledge that no one watched from the heights or the far side— he had had them scoured. The two legions were cheerful and willing to do anything Marius wanted them to do; they were exactly the same sort of men who had marched with Perperna through the western pass grumbling about the cold and unhappy to be there, they came from the same towns in the same lands. Yet these soldiers felt confident, fit for anything including battle, and obeyed their instructions to the letter as they commenced pouring across the little bridge. It is because, thought Aulus Plotius, they are Marius’s men—even if that means they must also be Marius’s mules. For, as always, Marius was marching light. Lupus, on the other hand, had insisted upon a proper baggage train.

Plotius strolled down to the stream south of the bridge, wanting to find a vantage point from which he could watch those fine stout fellows making the bridge timbers jingle and shudder as they jogged across. The river was up and roaring, but—due to the fact that Plotius had deliberately made for a small promontory jutting into the straight course of the stream—on the south side of the land where he stood there was a little bay full of eddies and bodies. At first he registered the bodies idly, not comprehending, then stared with growing horror. They were the bodies of soldiers! Two or three dozen of them! And judging from the plumes on their helmets, they were Roman.

He ran at once for Marius, who took one look and understood.

“Lupus,” he said grimly. “He’s been brought to battle on the far side of his bridge. Here, help me.”

Plotius scrambled down the bank in Marius’s wake and assisted him to bring one of the bodies in against the shore, where Marius turned it over and gazed down into the chalk-white, terrified face.

“It happened yesterday,” he said, and let the body go. “I’d like to stop and attend to these poor fellows, but there isn’t the time, Aulus Plotius. Assemble the troops on the far side of the bridge in battle marching order. I’ll address them the moment you’re ready. And make it quick! I’d say the Italians don’t know we’re here. So we might have a chance to make up for this in a small way.”

*

Publius Vettius Scato, leading two legions of Marsi, had left the vicinity of Aesernia a month before. He headed for Alba Fucentia to find Quintus Poppaedius Silo, who was besieging that Latin Rights city, strongly fortified and determined to hold out. Silo himself had elected to remain within Marsic territory to keep the war effort at its peak, but intelligence had long informed him that the Romans were training troops at Carseoli and Varia.

“Go and have a look,” he said to Scato.

Encountering Praesenteius and his Paeligni near Antinum, he received a full report upon the rout of Perperna in the western pass; Praesenteius was going east again to donate his spoils to the Paeligni recruitment campaign. Scato went west and did precisely what Marius had guessed a canny Italian would do; he put long-sighted men on top of the ridge beyond the eastern side of the Velinus. In the meantime he built a camp on the east bank of the river halfway between the two bridges, and was just beginning to think he ought to penetrate closer to Carseoli when a messenger came running in to tell him there was a Roman army crossing the more southerly of the two bridges.

With incredulous delight Scato himself watched Lupus get his soldiers from one side of the river to the other, committing every mistake possible. Before they even approached the bridge he allowed them to break ranks, and left them to mill in disorder on the far bank after they crossed. Lupus’s own energies were devoted to the baggage train; he was standing at the bridge clad only in a tunic when Scato and the Marsi fell upon his army. Eight thousand Roman legionaries died upon the field, including Publius Rutilius Lupus and his legate, Marcus Valerius Messala. Perhaps two thousand managed to escape by dragging the ox-wagons off the bridge, shedding their mail-shirts, helmets and swords, and running for Carseoli. It was the eleventh day of June.

The battle—if such it could be called—took place in the late afternoon. Scato decided to stay where he was rather than send his men back to their camp for the night. At dawn on the morrow they would commence to pick the corpses clean, pile up the naked bodies and burn them, drive the abandoned ox-wagons and mule-carts across to the eastern bank. They would undoubtedly contain wheat and other rations. They would also do to carry the captured armaments. A wonderful haul! Beating Romans, Scato thought complacently, was as easy as beating a baby. They didn’t even know how to protect themselves when on maneuvers in enemy country! And that was very odd. How had they ever managed to conquer half the world and keep the other half in a perpetual dither?

He was about to find out. Marius was on the move, and it was Scato’s turn to be attacked with his own men in complete disorder.

Marius had encountered the Marsic camp first, utterly deserted. He romped through it taking everything it contained—baggage, food aplenty, money aplenty too. But not in a disorderly fashion. Rather, he left most of his noncombatants behind to do the gathering up and sorting out, while he pressed on with his legions. At about noon he reached yesterday’s battlefield to find the Marsic troops going about stripping the armor from corpses.

“Oh, very nice!” he roared to Aulus Plotius. “My men are blooded in the best way—a rout! Gives them all sorts of confidence! They’re veterans before they know it!”

It was indeed a rout. Scato took to his heels into the mountains leaving two thousand Marsic dead behind him as well as everything he owned. But the honors, Marius thought grimly, had still to be awarded to the Italians, who had had by far the best of things in terms of soldier dead. All those months of recruiting and training gone for nothing. Eight thousand good men dead because—as seemed inevitable—they were led by a fool.

They found the bodies of Lupus and Messala by the bridge.

“I’m sorry for Marcus Valerius; I think he would have turned out well,” said Marius to Plotius. “But I am profoundly glad that Fortune saw fit to turn her face away from Lupus! If he had lived, we’d lose yet more men.”

To which there was no reply. Plotius made none.

Marius sent the bodies of the consul and his legate back to Rome under the escort of his only cavalry squadron, his letter of explanation traveling with the cortege. Time, thought Gaius Marius sourly, that Rome was given a thorough fright. Otherwise no one living there was going to believe there really was a war going on in Italy—and no one would believe the Italians were formidable.

Scaurus Princeps Senatus sent two replies, one on behalf of the Senate, the other on his own behalf.

I am truly sorry the official report says what it does, Gaius Marius. It was not my doing, I can assure you. But the trouble is, old man, that I just do not have the necessary reserves of energy one needs to swing a body of three hundred men around single-handedly. I did it over twenty years ago in the matter of Jugurtha—but it is the last twenty years are the ones which count. Not that there are three hundred in the Senate these days. More like one hundred. Those senators under thirty-five are all doing some sort of military service— and so are quite a few of the ancients, including a certain fellow named Gaius Marius.

When your little funeral train arrived in Rome it created a sensation. The whole city fell about screaming and tearing out hunks of hair, not to mention lacerating its breast. All of a sudden, the war was real. Perhaps nothing else could have taught them that particular lesson. Morale plummeted. In an instant, in less time than it takes a bolt of lightning to strike. Until the body of the consul arrived in the Forum, I think everyone in Rome—including senators and knights!— regarded this war as a sinecure. But there lay Lupus, stone dead, killed by an Italian on a battlefield not more than a few miles from Rome herself. A frightful instant, that one when we spilled out of the Curia Hostilia and stood gaping at Lupus and Messala—did you tell the escort to uncover them before they reached the Forum? I’ll bet you did!

Anyway, all Rome has gone into mourning, it’s dark and dreary clothes wherever you go. All men left in the Senate are wearing the sagum instead of the toga, and a knight’s narrow stripe on their tunics rather than the latus clavus. The curule magistrates have doffed their insignia of office, even to sitting on plain wooden stools in the Curia and on their tribunals. Sumptuary laws are being hinted at regarding purple and pepper and panoply. From total unconcern Rome has gone to the opposite extreme. Everywhere I go, people are audibly wondering if we are actually going to lose?

As you will see, the official reply is upon two separate matters. The first I personally deplore, but I was howled down in the name of “national emergency.” To wit: in future all and any war casualties from the lowest ranker to the general will be given a funeral and all possible obsequies in the field. No one is to be returned to Rome for fear of what it might do to morale. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish! But they wanted it so.

The second is far worse, Gaius Marius. Knowing you, you have taken this to read ahead of officialdom. So I had better tell you without further ado that the House refused to give you the supreme command. They didn’t precisely pass you over—that they weren’t quite courageous enough to do. Instead, they have given the command jointly to you and Caepio. A more asinine, stupid, futile decision they could not possibly have made. Even to have appointed Caepio above you on his own would have been smarter. But I suppose you will deal with it in your own inimitable way.

Oh, I was angry! But the trouble is that those who are left in the House are by and large the dried-up, rattly bits of shit hanging around the sheep’s arse. The decent wool is in the field—or else, like me, had a job to do in Rome—but there are only a handful of us compared to the rattly bits. At the moment I feel as if I am quite superfluous. Philippus is running the place. Can you truly imagine that? It was bad enough having to deal with him as consul in those awful days leading up to the murder of Marcus Livius, but now he’s worse. And the knights in the Comitia eat out of his greasy palm. I wrote to Lucius Julius asking that he return to Rome and pick a consul suffectus in place of Lupus, but he wrote back saying we’d have to muddle along as we were because he’s too tied up to leave Campania for so much as one day. I do what I can, but I tell you, Gaius Marius, I am getting very old.

Of course Caepio will be insufferable when he hears the news. I have tried to arrange the couriers so that you know ahead of him. It will give you time to decide how you will handle him when he struts up to peacock in front of you. I can only offer you one piece of advice. Deal with it your own way.

But in the end Fortune dealt with it—brilliantly, finally, ironically. Caepio accepted his joint command with extreme confidence, as he had beaten back a raiding legion of Marsi at Varia while Marius had been dealing with Scato along the river Velinus. Equating this small success with Marius’s victory, he notified the Senate that he had won the first victory of the war, as it had happened on the tenth day of June, whereas Marius’s victory was two days later. And in between there had been an appalling defeat, for which Caepio managed to blame Marius rather than Lupus.

To his chagrin, Marius seemed not to care who got the credit or what Caepio wanted in Varia. When Caepio directed him to return to Carseoli, Marius ignored him. He had taken over Scato’s camp along the Velinus, fortified it heavily, and put every man he had at his disposal into it, there to drill and re-drill his troops while the days dripped on and Caepio chafed at being denied the chance to invade the lands of the Marsi. As well as inheriting what men of Lupus’s had survived, some five cohorts, Marius had two thirds of the six thousand men who had fled from Praesenteius in the western pass; he had now re-equipped the lot. Which gave him a total of three over-strength legions. Before he moved an inch, he said by letter, they would be ready to his satisfaction, not some cretin’s who didn’t know his vanguard from his wings.

Caepio had about a legion and a half of troops which he had redistributed to form two under-strength units, and was not confident enough to move at all. So while Marius relentlessly drilled his men miles away to the northeast, Caepio sat in Varia and fumed. June turned into Quinctilis and still Marius drilled his men, still Caepio sat in Varia and fumed. Like Lupus before him, a good deal of Caepio’s time was occupied in writing complaining letters to the Senate, where Scaurus and Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus and Quintus Mucius Scaevola and a few other stalwarts kept the slavering Lucius Marcius Philippus at bay every time he proposed that Gaius Marius be stripped of his command.

About the middle of Quinctilis, Caepio received a visitor. None other than Quintus Poppaedius Silo of the Marsi.

Silo arrived in Caepio’s camp with two terrified-looking slaves, one heavily laden donkey, and two babies, apparently twins. Summoned, Caepio strolled out into the camp forum, where Silo stood wearing full armor, his little entourage behind him. The babes, held by the female slave, were wrapped in purple blankets embroidered with gold.

When he saw Caepio, Silo’s face lit up. “Quintus Servilius, how good it is to see you!” he cried, walking forward with his right hand outstretched.

Conscious that they were the center of much attention, Caepio drew himself up haughtily and ignored the hand.

“What do you want?” he asked disdainfully.

Silo dropped his hand, managing to make the gesture independent and free from humiliation. “I seek Rome’s shelter and protection,” he said, “and for the sake of Marcus Livius Drusus, I preferred to give myself up to you rather than to Gaius Marius.”

Mollified a little by this reply—and consumed with curiosity besides—Caepio hesitated. “Why do you need Rome’s protection?” he asked, eyes moving from Silo to the purple-wrapped babes, then to the male slave and his charge, the overloaded donkey.

“As you know, Quintus Servilius, the Marsi gave Rome a formal declaration of war,” said Silo. “What you do not know is that it was thanks to the Marsi that the Italian nations delayed their offensive for so long after that declaration of war. In the councils in Corfinium—the city now called Italica—I kept pleading for time and secretly hoping that no blows would be struck. For I regard this war as pointless, hideous, wasteful. Italy cannot beat Rome! Some among the council began to accuse me of harboring Roman sympathies, which I denied. Then Publius Vettius Scato—my own praetor!—came back to Corfinium after his clash with Lupus the consul and his subsequent clash with Gaius Marius. Whereupon the whole thing came to boiling point. Scato accused me of collusion with Gaius Marius, and everyone believed him. Suddenly I found myself an outcast. That I was not killed in Corfinium was due to the size of the jury— all five hundred Italian councillors. While they deliberated I left the city and hurried to my own city of Marruvium. I reached it ahead of pursuit—but with Scato leading the hunt, I knew I wouldn’t be safe among the Marsi. So I took my twin sons, Italicus and Marsicus, and decided to flee to Rome for protection.”

“What makes you think we’d want to protect you?” Caepio asked, nostrils flaring. Such an odd smell! “You’ve done nothing for Rome.”

“Oh, but I have, Quintus Servilius!” Silo said, and pointed to the donkey. “I stole the contents of the Marsic treasury and would offer it to Rome. There on the ass is a little of it. Only a very little! Some miles behind me, well hidden in a secret valley behind a hill, there are thirty more asses, all laden with at least as much gold as this one carries.”

Gold! That was what Caepio could smell! Everyone was always insisting gold was odorless; but Caepio knew better, just as his father before him had known better. Not a Quintus Servilius Caepio ever born could not smell gold.

“Give me a look,” he said curtly, moving to the donkey.

Its panniers were well hidden by a hide cover which Silo now stripped off. And there it was. Gold. Five rough-cast round sows of it nestling in each pannier, glittering in the sun. Every sow stamped with the Marsic snake.

“About three talents,” said Silo, covering the panniers again with anxious looks all about to see who might be watching. Having tied the thongs which held the cover on securely, Silo paused and gazed at Caepio out of those remarkable yellow-green eyes, little flames leaping in them, it seemed to the dazzled Caepio. “This ass is yours,” he said, “and perhaps two or three more might be yours if you extend me your personal protection as well as Rome’s.”

“You have it,” said Caepio instantly, and smiled an avaricious smile. “I’ll take five asses, though.”

“As you wish, Quintus Servilius.” Silo sighed deeply. “Oh, I am tired! I’ve been running for three days.”

“Then rest,” said Caepio. “Tomorrow you can lead me to the secret valley. I want to see all this gold!”

“It might be wise to bring your army,” said Silo as they moved off toward the general’s tent, the female slave following with the babies. Good babies; they didn’t cry or wriggle. “By now they’ll know what I’ve done, and who knows what they’ll send after me? I imagine they’ll guess I’ve appealed to Rome for asylum.”

“Let them guess!” said Caepio gleefully. “My two legions are a match for the Marsi!” He held open the tent flap, but preceded his suppliant inside. “Ah—of course I must ask that you leave your sons in this camp while we’re away.’’

“I understand,” said Silo with dignity.

“They look like you,” said Caepio when the slave girl put the babies down upon a couch preparatory to changing their diapers. And they did indeed; both had Silo’s eyes. Caepio shivered. “Stop, girl!” he said to the slave. “There’ll be no baby-cack in here! You’ll have to wait until I organize accommodation for your master, then you can do whatever it is you have to do.”

Thus it was that when Caepio led his two legions out of their camp the next morning, Silo’s slave girl remained behind with the royal twins; the gold remained behind too, safely unloaded from the donkey and hidden in Caepio’s tent.

“Did you know, Quintus Servilius, that Gaius Marius is, at this very moment, beleaguered by ten legions of Picentes, Paeligni, and Marrucini?” asked Silo.

“No!” gasped Caepio, riding beside Silo at the head of his army. “Ten legions? Will he win?”

“Gaius Marius always wins,” said Silo smoothly.

“Humph,” said Caepio.

They rode until the sun was overhead in the sky, having left the Via Valeria almost immediately to head southwest along the Anio in the direction of Sublaqueum. Silo insisted on setting a pace which enabled the infantry to keep up, though Caepio was so eager to see the rest of the gold that he resented dawdling.

“It’s safe, it isn’t going anywhere,” said Silo soothingly. “I would much rather that your troops be with us and not breathing hard-when we get there, Quintus Servilius—for both our sakes.”

The country was rugged but negotiable; the miles went by until, not far short of Sublaqueum, Silo halted.

“There!” he said, pointing to a hill on the far side of the Anio. “Behind that is the secret valley. There’s a good bridge not far from here. We can cross safely.”

It was a good bridge, wide and made of stone; Caepio ordered his army across at full march, but remained in the lead. The road came up from Anagnia on the Via Latina to Sublaqueum, traversed the Anio at this point, and ended in Carseoli. Once the troops crossed the bridge they had a good road to walk on and stretched out in stride, quite enjoying their outing. Caepio’s mood had told them long since that this was some sort of jaunt, no martial foray, so they kept their shields across their backs and used their spears as staves to ease the weight of their mail-shirts. Time was dragging on, they might have to camp in the rough and without food that night, but it was worth it not to be burdened by packs, and the general’s attitude said some sort of reward was imminent.

With the two legions strung out around the base of the hill as the road curved on its way northeast, Silo turned in his saddle to talk to Caepio.

“I’ll ride on ahead, Quintus Servilius,” he said, “just to make sure everything is all right. I don’t want anyone frightened into trying to bolt.”

Easing his own pace, Caepio watched as Silo kicked his horse into a canter and dwindled quickly in size; several hundred paces further up the road Silo turned off it and disappeared behind a small cliff.

The Marsi fell upon Caepio’s column from everywhere— from the front, where Silo had vanished—from the rear— from behind every rock and stone and bank on both sides of the road. No one had a chance. Before shields could be stripped of their hide covers and swung to the front, before swords could be properly drawn and helms fitted upon heads, four legions of Marsi were amid the column in their thousands, laying about them as if engaged upon an exercise. Caepio’s army perished to the very last man but one, and that one was Caepio himself, taken prisoner at the beginning of the attack, and forced to watch his troops die.

When it was all over, when not a Roman soldier moved on the road and all around it, Quintus Poppaedius Silo rode back into Caepio’s view, surrounded by his legates, including Scato and Fraucus. He was smiling widely.

“Well, Quintus Servilius, what say you now?”

White-faced and trembling, Caepio summoned every reserve. “You forget, Quintus Poppaedius,” he said, “that I still hold your babies as my hostages.”

Silo burst out laughing. “My babies? No! They’re the children of the slave couple you still hold. But I’ll get them back—and my ass. There’s no one left in your camp to gainsay me.” The eerie eyes glowed coldly, goldly. “But I won’t bother to remove the ass’s cargo. You can have that.”

“It’s gold!” said Caepio, aghast.

“No, Quintus Servilius, it is not gold. It’s lead covered with the thinnest possible skin of gold. If you’d scraped it, you would have discovered the trick. But I knew my Caepio better than that! You couldn’t bring yourself to put a scratch in a chunk of gold if your life depended upon it—and your life did.” He drew his sword, dismounted, strolled toward Caepio.

Fraucus and Scato moved to Caepio’s horse and pulled him from the saddle. Without saying a word, they divested him of cuirass and hardened leather under-dress. Understanding, Caepio began to weep desolately.

“I would like to hear you beg for your life, Quintus Servilius Caepio,” Silo said as he moved within striking distance.

But that Caepio found himself unable to do. At Arausio he had run away, and never since had he found himself in a genuinely perilous situation, even when the Marsic raiding party had attacked his camp. Now he saw why they had attacked; they had lost a handful of men, but they had regarded their losses as worth it. Silo had seen the lay of the land, and laid his plans accordingly. Had Caepio searched his mind about this present ordeal, he might have concluded that he would indeed beg for his life. Now that the ordeal was happening, he found he could not. A Quintus Servilius Caepio might not be the bravest of Roman men, but he was nonetheless a Roman, and a Roman of high degree—a patrician, a nobleman. A Quintus Servilius Caepio might weep, and who knew how much he wept for the cessation of his life, and how much for that lovely lost gold? But a Quintus Servilius Caepio could not beg.

Caepio lifted his chin, drew a veil down across his gaze, and stared into nothing.

“This is for Drusus,” said Silo. “You had him killed.”

“I did not,” said Caepio from a great distance. “I would have. But it wasn’t necessary. Quintus Varius organized it. And a good thing too. If Drusus hadn’t been killed, you and all your dirty friends would be citizens of Rome. But you’re not. And you never will be. There are many like me in Rome.”

Silo raised the sword until his hand holding the hilt was slightly higher than his shoulder. “For Drusus,” he said. Down came the sword into the side of Caepio’s neck where it started to curve out into the shoulder; a huge piece of bone flew and struck Fraucus on the cheek, cutting it. But not so deeply as Silo’s cut, down to the top of the sternum, through veins and arteries and nerves. Blood sprayed everywhere. But Silo was not finished, and Caepio did not fall. Silo moved a little, raised his arm a second time, and repeated the blow to the other side of Caepio’s neck. Down he went with Silo following to deliver the third stroke, which severed the head. Scato picked it up and rammed it crudely through the gullet onto a spear. When Silo was in the saddle again, Scato handed him the spear. The army of the Marsi moved off down the road toward the Via Valeria, Caepio’s head sailing before them, seeing nothing.

The rest of Caepio the Marsi left behind with Caepio’s army; this was Roman territory, let the Romans clean up the mess. More important to make a getaway before Gaius Marius discovered what had happened. Of course the story Silo had told Caepio about a ten-legion attack upon Marius had been a fabrication-—he had just wanted to see how Caepio reacted. Silo did send to the deserted camp outside Varia, however, and brought his slaves away together with their royally clad twin sons. And his donkey. But not the “gold.” When that was unearthed inside Caepio’s tent, everyone deemed it a part of the Gold of Tolosa, and wondered where the rest of it was. Until Mamercus came forward, and someone scraped the surface of the “gold” to bare the lead beneath, thus proving the truth of Mamercus’s strange tale.

For it was necessary that Silo inform someone what had really happened. Not for his own sake. For the sake of Drusus. So he had written to Drusus’s brother, Mamercus.

Quintus Servilius Caepio is dead. Yesterday I led him and his army into a trap on the road between Carseoli and Sublaqueum, having lured him out of Varia with a tall story—how I had deserted the Marsi and stolen the contents of the Marsic treasury. I had an ass with me, loaded down with lead sows skinned to look like gold. You know the weakness of the Servilii Caepiones! Dangle gold under their noses, and all else is utterly forgotten.

Every single Roman soldier belonging to Caepio is dead. But Caepio I took alive, and killed him myself. I cut his head off and carried it before my army on a spear. For Drusus. For Drusus, Mamercus Aemilius. And for Caepio’s children, who will now inherit the Gold of Tolosa, with the lion’s share going to the red-haired cuckoo in the Caepio nest. Some justice. If Caepio had lived until the children were grown he would have found a way to disinherit them. As it is, they now inherit everything. I am pleased to do this for Drusus because it would have pleased Drusus mightily. For Drusus. Long may his memory live in the minds of all good men, Roman and Italian.

Because in that poor family nothing was dulled, or blunted, or rendered mercifully, Silo’s letter arrived scant hours after Cornelia Scipionis had collapsed and died, compounding the frightful problem Mamercus faced. With the deaths of Cornelia Scipionis and Quintus Servilius Caepio, the last threads of stability for the six children who lived in Drusus’s house were irrevocably broken. They were now absolute orphans, not a parent or a grandparent between them. Uncle Mamercus was their last living relative.

By rights that should have meant he would take them into his own house and complete their upbringing himself; they would have been company for his baby daughter Aemilia Lepida, just toddling. Over the months since the death of Drusus, Mamercus had become fond of all the children, even the dreadful Young Cato, whose unyielding character Mamercus found pitiable, and whose love for his brother, Young Caepio, Mamercus found touching to the point of tears. So it never occurred to him that he would not be taking the children home—until he went home after seeing to his mother’s funeral arrangements and told his wife. They had not been married more than five years, and Mamercus was very much in love with her. Not needing to marry money, he had chosen a bride for love, under the fond delusion that she too was marrying for love. One of the lesser Claudias, impoverished and desperate, Mamercus’s wife had grabbed at him. But she didn’t love him. And she didn’t love children. Even her own daughter she found boring, and left in the company of the nurserymaids, so that little Aemilia Lepida was more spoiled than disciplined.

“They’re not coming here!” Claudia Mamercus snapped, before he had quite finished his tale.

“But they have to come here! They have nowhere else to go!” he said, shocked anew; his mother’s death was so recent he had not yet emerged from that shock.

“They have that huge gorgeous house to live in—we should be so lucky! There’s more money than anyone knows what to do with—hire them an army of minders and tutors and leave them right where they are.” Her mouth went hard, its corners turned down. “Get it out of your head, Mamercus! They are not coming here.”

This was of course the first crack in his idol, something she did not understand. Mamercus stood looking at his wife with wonder in his eyes, his own mouth hard. “I insist,” he said.

She raised her brows. “You can insist until water turns into wine, husband! It makes no difference. They are not coming here. Or put it this way: if they come, I go.”

“Claudia, have some pity! They’re so alone!”

“Why should I pity them? They’re not going to starve or lack education. There’s not one of them knows what having a parent was like anyway,” said Claudia Mamercus. “The two Servilias are as catty as they are snobbish, Drusus Nero is an oaf, and the rest are the descendants of a slave. Leave them where they are.”

“They must have a proper home,” said Mamercus.

“They already have a proper home.”

That Mamercus gave in was not evidence of weakness, simply that he was a practical man and saw the inadvisability of overruling Claudia. Did he bring them home after this declaration of war, their plight would be worse. He couldn’t be inside his house all day every day, and Claudia’s reaction indicated that she would make it her business to take out her resentment at being saddled with them on them at every opportunity.

He went to see Marcus Aemilius Scaurus Princeps Senatus, who was admittedly not an Aemilius Lepidus, but was the senior Aemilius in the whole gens. Scaurus was also co-executor of Drusus’s will, and sole executor of Caepio’s will. Therefore it was Scaurus’s duty to do what he could about the children. Mamercus felt wretched. The death of his mother was a colossal blow to him, for he had always known her, always lived with her until she went to Drusus— which she had done, come to think of it just after he had married his Claudia and brought her home! Not one word of disparagement of Claudia had she ever uttered. But, looking back, how glad Cornelia Scipionis must have been to have a perfect excuse to move out.

By the time Mamercus reached the house of Marcus Aemilius Scaurus he had fallen out of love with Claudia Mamercus and would never replace that emotion with a friendlier, more comfortable kind of love. Until today he would have deemed it impossible to fall out of love so quickly, so thoroughly; yet—here he was, knocking on Scaurus’s door, devastated by the loss of his mother and out of love with his wife.

It therefore cost Mamercus nothing to explain his predicament to Scaurus in the bleakest terms.

“What should I do, Marcus Aemilius?”

Scaurus Princeps Senatus sat back in his chair, lucent green eyes fixed upon this Livian face, with its beaky nose, dark eyes, prominent bones. The last of two families, was Mamercus. He must be cherished and assisted in every way possible.

“Certainly I think you must accommodate the wishes of your wife, Mamercus. Which means you will have to leave the children in Marcus Livius Drusus’s house. And that in turn means you must find someone noble to live there with them.”

“Who?”

“Leave it with me, Mamercus,” said Scaurus briskly. “I’ll think of somebody.”

Think of somebody Scaurus did, two days later. Very pleased with himself, he sent for Mamercus.

“Do you remember that particular Quintus Servilius Caepio who was consul two years before our illustrious relative Aemilius Paullus fought Perseus of Macedonia at Pydna?” asked Scaurus.

Mamercus grinned. “Not personally, Marcus Aemilius! But I do know who you mean.”

“Good,” said Scaurus, grinning back. “That particular Quintus Servilius Caepio had three sons. The oldest was adopted out to the Fabii Maximi, with bitter results—Eburnus and his unfortunate son.” Scaurus was enjoying this; he was one of Rome’s greatest experts in noble genealogy and could trace the ramifications in the family tree of anyone who mattered. “The youngest son, Quintus, sired the consul Caepio who stole the Gold of Tolosa and lost the battle of Arausio. He also sired a girl, Servilia, who married our esteemed consular Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar. From Caepio the consul there came that Caepio who was killed the other day by the Marsian Silo, and the girl who married your brother, Drusus.”

“You’ve left out the middle son,” said Mamercus.

“On purpose, Mamercus, on purpose! He’s the one I’m really interested in today. His name was Gnaeus. However, he married much later than his younger brother, Quintus, so that his son, a Gnaeus of course, was only old enough to be a quaestor while his first cousin was already a consular and busy losing the battle of Arausio. Young Gnaeus was quaestor in Asia Province. He had recently married a Porcia Liciniana—not a well-dowered girl, but Gnaeus didn’t need a well-dowered girl. He was, as are all the Servilii Caepiones, a very wealthy man. When Gnaeus the quaestor left for Asia Province he had produced one child—a girl I shall call Servilia Gnaea to distinguish her from all the other Servilias. Now the sex of his and Porcia Liciniana’s child, Servilia Gnaea, was most unfortunate.”

Scaurus paused for breath, beaming. “Isn’t it wonderful, my dear Mamercus, how tortuously interconnected all our families are?”

“Daunting, I’d rather call it,” said Mamercus.

“Getting back to the two-year-old girl, Servilia Gnaea,” said Scaurus, sinking pleasurably into his chair, “I used the word ‘unfortunate’ with good reason. Gnaeus Caepio had prudently made his will before he left for Asia Province and his quaestorship, but I imagine he never dreamed for a moment that it would be executed. Under the lex Voconia de mulierum hereditatibus, Servilia Gnaea—a girl!—could not inherit. His will left his very large fortune to his first cousin, Caepio who lost the battle of Arausio and stole the Gold of Tolosa.”

“I notice, Marcus Aemilius, that you’re very frank about the fate of the Gold of Tolosa,” said Mamercus. “Everyone always says he did steal it, but I’ve never heard someone of your auctoritas say so unequivocally before.”

Scaurus flapped an impatient hand. “Oh, we all know he took it, Mamercus, so why not say so? You’ve never struck me as a chatty individual, so I think I’m safe in saying it to you.”

“You are.”

“The understanding, of course, was that Caepio of Arausio and the Gold of Tolosa would return the fortune to Servilia Gnaea if he inherited it. Naturally Gnaeus Caepio had provided for the girl to the full extent the law allowed in his will—a pittance compared to the entire fortune. And off he went as quaestor to Asia Province. On the way back, his ship was wrecked and he was drowned. Caepio of Arausio and the Gold of Tolosa inherited. But he did not give the fortune back to the little girl. He simply added it to his own already astronomical fortune, though he needed it not at all. And in the fullness of time, poor Servilia Gnaea’s inheritance passed to the Caepio killed the other day by Silo.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Mamercus, scowling.

“I agree. But it’s also life,” said Scaurus.

“What happened to Servilia Gnaea? And her mother?”

“Oh, they’ve survived, of course. They live very modestly in Gnaeus Caepio’s house, which Caepio the consul and then in turn his son did permit the two women to keep. Not legally, just as a domicile. When the will of the last Quintus Caepio is probated—I am in the middle of that task now—the house will be documented in it. As you know, everything Caepio had with the exception of lavish dowries for his two girls goes to the little boy, Caepio of the red hair, ha ha! Much to my surprise, I was named sole executor! I had thought someone like Philippus would be named, but I ought to have known better. No Caepio ever lived who did not cultivate his fortune assiduously. Our recently deceased Caepio must have decided that if Philippus or Varius were executor, too much might go missing. A wise decision! Philippus would have behaved like a pig in acorns.”

“All this is fascinating, Marcus Aemilius,” said Mamercus, experiencing the stirrings of an interest in genealogy, “but I am as yet unenlightened.”

“Patience, patience, Mamercus, I’m getting there!” said Scaurus.

“I imagine, by the way,” said Mamercus, remembering what his brother Drusus had said, “that one of the reasons you were appointed executor was due to my brother, Drusus. He had, it seemed, certain information about Caepio that he threatened to disclose if Caepio didn’t leave his children properly cared for in his will. It may be that Drusus stipulated the executor. Caepio was very much afraid of whatever information Drusus had.”

“The Gold of Tolosa again,” said Scaurus complacently. “It has to be, you know. My investigations into Caepio’s affairs, though only two or three days old, are already fascinating. So much money! The two girls have been left dowries of two hundred talents each—yet that doesn’t even begin to reach the limits of what they could have inherited, even under the lex Voconia. Red-haired Young Caepio is the richest man in Rome.”

“Please, Marcus Aemilius! Finish the story!”

“Oh, yes, yes! The impatience of youth! Under our laws, given that the beneficiary is a minor, I am obliged to take into my consideration even such petty things as the house in which Servilia Gnaea—now aged seventeen—and her mother Porcia Liciniana still live. Now I have no idea what kind of man red-haired Young Caepio will turn out to be, and I have no wish to leave my own son testamentary headaches. It is not impossible that Young Caepio on reaching manhood will demand to know why I went on allowing Servilia Gnaea and her mother to live rent-free in that house. The original ownership by the time that Young Caepio is a man will be so far in the past that he may never know it. Legally, it is his house.”

“I do see where you’re going, Marcus Aemilius,” said Mamercus. “Go on, do! I’m fascinated.”

Scaurus leaned forward. “I would suggest, Mamercus, that you offer Servilia Gnaea—not her mother!—a job. The poor girl has absolutely no dowry. It has taken all of her slender inheritance to afford her and her mother comfortable living in the fifteen years since the father died. The Porcii Liciniani are not in any position to help, I add. Or will not help, which amounts to the same thing. Between our first talk and this one, I popped round to see Servilia Gnaea and Porcia Liciniana, ostensibly as the executor of Caepio’s will. And after I had explained my own predicament, they became quite frantic as to what the future might hold for them. I explained, you see, that I thought I must sell the house so that its lack of earning rent over the past fifteen years need not appear in the estate accounts.”

“That’s clever enough and devious enough to allow you to qualify for the job of High Chamberlain to King Ptolemy of Egypt,” said Mamercus, laughing.

“True!” said Scaurus, and drew a breath. “Servilia Gnaea is now seventeen, as I have said. That means she will reach normal marriageable age in about a year’s time. But, alas, she is not a beauty. In fact she’s extremely plain, poor thing. Without a dowry—and she has no dowry—she’ll never get a husband of remotely her own class. Her mother is a true Cato Licinianus, not impressed by the idea of a rich but vulgar knight or a rich but bucolic farmer for her daughter. However, needs must when there is no dowry!”

How convoluted he is! thought Mamercus, looking attentive.

“What I suggest you do is this, Mamercus. Having received a worrisome visit from me already, the ladies will be in a mood to listen to you. I suggest that you propose that Servilia Gnaea—and her mother, but only as her guest!—accept a commission from you to look after the six children of Marcus Livius Drusus. Live in Drusus’s house. Enjoy a generous allowance for upkeep, living expenses, and maintenance. On the condition that Servilia Gnaea remains single until the last child is well and truly of age. The last child is Young Cato, now three. Three from sixteen is thirteen. Therefore Servilia Gnaea will have to remain single for the next thirteen to fourteen years. That would make her about thirty when her contract with you is worked out. Not an impossible age for marriage! Particularly if you offer to present her with a dowry the same size as the dowries of her young cousins—the two girls she will be looking after—when she finishes her task. The Caepio fortune can well afford to donate her two hundred talents, Mamercus, believe me. And to make absolutely sure—I am, after all, no longer a young man—I will peel off those two hundred talents now, and invest them in Servilia Gnaea’s name. In trust until her thirty-first birthday. Provided she has acquitted herself to your and my satisfaction.”

A wicked grin spread across Scaurus’s face. “She is not pretty, Mamercus! But I guarantee that when Servilia Gnaea turns thirty-one she will find herself able to pick and choose between a dozen hopeful men of her own class. Two hundred talents are irresistible!” He fiddled with his pen for a moment, then looked directly into Mamercus’s eyes, his own beautiful orbs stern. “I am not a young man. And I am the only Scaurus left among the Aemilii. I have a young wife, a daughter just turned eleven, and a son five years old. I am now the sole executor of Rome’s greatest private fortune. Should anything happen to me before my son is mature, to whom do I trust the fortunes of my own loved ones, and the fortunes of those three Servilian children? You and I are the joint executors of Drusus’s estate, which means we share the care of the three Porcian children already. Would you be willing to act as trustee and executor for me and mine after my death? You are a Livius by birth, but an Aemilius by adoption. I would rest easier, Mamercus, if you said yes to me. I need the reassurance of an honest man at my back.”

Mamercus did not hesitate. “I say yes, Marcus Aemilius.”

Which concluded their discussion. From Scaurus’s house Mamercus went immediately to see Servilia Gnaea and her mother. They lived in an excellent location on the Circus Maximus side of the Palatine, but Mamercus was quick to note that, while Caepio might have permitted the ladies to live in the place, he had not been generous with funds for its upkeep. The paint on the stuccoed walls was flaking badly and the atrium ceiling was marred by several huge patches of damp and mildew; in one corner the leak was evidently so bad that the plaster had fallen away, exposing the hair and slats beneath. The murals had once been very attractive, but time and neglect had both faded and obscured them. However, a glance into the peristyle-garden while he waited to be received indicated that the ladies were not lazy, for it was carefully kept, full of flowers, minus weeds.

He had asked to see both of them, and both of them came, Porcia more curious than anything else. Of course she knew he was married; no noble Roman mother with a daughter needing a husband left any youngish man of her own class uninvestigated.

Both women were dark, Servilia Gnaea darker than her mother, however. And plainer, despite the fact that the mother had a true Catonian nose, hugely aquiline, whereas the daughter’s nose was small: For one thing, Servilia Gnaea suffered dreadfully from acne; her eyes were set too close together and were slightly piggy, and her mouth was un-fashionably wide and thin-lipped. The mother looked very proud and haughty. The daughter simply looked dour; she had that humorless kind of character flatness which had the power to daunt many a more courageous man than Mamercus, who did not lack courage in the least.

“We are related, Mamercus Aemilius,” said the mother graciously. “My grandmother was Aemilia Tertia, daughter of Paullus.”

“Of course,’’ said Mamercus, and sat where indicated.

“We are also related through the Livii,” she pursued as she sat on a couch opposite him, her daughter beside her mumchance.

“I know,” said Mamercus, finding it difficult to think of a good way to introduce the reason for his call.

“What do you want?” asked Porcia, solving his dilemma bluntly.

So he stated his case with equal bluntness; Mamercus was not a man of easy words, for all that his mother had been a Cornelia of the Scipiones. Porcia and Servilia Gnaea sat and listened most attentively, but without giving away their thoughts.

“You would require us to live in the house of Marcus Livius Drusus for the next thirteen to fourteen years, is that right?” asked Porcia when he finished.

“Yes.”

“After which my daughter, dowered with two hundred talents, would be free to marry?”

“Yes.”

“And what about me?”

Mamercus blinked. He always thought of mothers continuing to live in the house of the paterfamilias—but of course that was this house, which Scaurus intended to sell.

And it would be a brave man who asked this particular mother-in-law to live with him! thought Mamercus, smiling inwardly.

“Would you be willing to accept the life tenancy of a seaside villa at Misenum or Cumae, together with a competency adequate for the needs of a retired lady?” he asked.

“I would,” said Porcia instantly.

“Then if all this is agreed to by legal and binding contract, may I assume both of you are willing to take on this burden, look after the children?”

“You may.” Porcia looked down her amazing nose. “Have the children a pedagogue?”

“No. The oldest boy is just about ten years old, and has been going to school. Young Caepio is not yet seven, and Young Cato only three,” said Mamercus.

“Nevertheless, Mamercus Aemilius, I think it vitally important that you find a good man to live in as tutor to all six children,” announced Porcia. “We will have no male in the house. While this is not a danger physically, for the children’s sake I feel there must be a man of authority who does not have slave status resident in the house. A pedagogue would be ideal.”

“You are absolutely correct, Porcia. I shall see to it at once,” said Mamercus, taking his leave.

“We will come tomorrow,” said Porcia, escorting him out.

“So soon? I’m very pleased, but don’t you have things to do, things to arrange?”

“My daughter and I own nothing, Mamercus Aemilius, beyond some clothes. Even the servants here belong to the estate of Quintus Servilius Caepio.’’ She held open the door. “Good day. And thank you, Mamercus Aemilius. You have rescued us from worse penury.”

Well, thought Mamercus as he hastened to the establishment in the Basilica Sempronia where he expected to find a pedagogue for sale, I’m glad I’m not one of those six poor children! Still, it will be a better life for them than living with my Claudia!

“We have quite a few suitable men on our books, Mamercus Aemilius,” said Lucius Duronius Postumus, the owner of one of Rome’s two best agencies for pedagogues.

“What’s the going price for a superior pedagogue these days?” Mamercus asked, never having had this particular duty to do before.

Duronius pursed his lips. “Anywhere between one hundred and three hundred thousand sesterces—even more if the product is the very best anywhere.”

“Phew!” whistled Mamercus. “Cato the Censor would not have been amused!”

“Cato the Censor was a parsimonious old fart,” said Duronius. “Even in his day, a good pedagogue cost a lot more than a miserable six thousand.”

“But I’m buying a tutor for three of his direct descendants!”

“Take it or leave it,” said Duronius, looking bored.

Mamercus stifled a sigh. Looking after these six children was proving to be an expensive business! “Oh, all right, all right, I suppose I’ll have to take it. When can I see the candidates?”

“Since I board all my readily marketable slaves within Rome, I’ll send them round to your house in the morning. What’s your absolute upper limit?”

“I don’t know! What’s a few more hundred thousand sesterces?” cried Mamercus, throwing his hands in the air. “Do your worst, Duronius! But if you send me a dunce or a cuckoo, I’ll castrate you with great pleasure!”

He did not mention to Duronius that he planned to free the man he bought; that would only have increased the price even more. No, whoever it was would be manumitted privately and taken into Mamercus’s own clientele. Which meant whoever it was could liberate himself no more easily from his employment than if he had still been a slave. A freedman client belonged to his ex-master.

In the end there was only one suitable man—and of course he was the most expensive. Duronius knew his business. Given that there would be two adult women in the house without a paterfamilias to supervise them, the tutor had to be of great moral integrity as well as a pleasant, understanding man. The successful candidate was named Sarpedon, and he hailed from Lycia in the south of the Roman Asia Province. Like most of his kind, he had sold himself voluntarily into slavery, deeming his chances of a comfortable, well-fed old age considerably better if he spent the years between in service to a Roman of high degree. Either he would earn his freedom, or he would be looked after. So he had taken himself off to the Smyrna offices of Lucius Duronius Postumius, and been accepted. This would be his first post—that is, his first time of purchase. He was twenty-five years old, extremely well read in both Greek and Latin; his spoken Greek was the purest Attic, and his spoken Latin so good he might have been a genuine Roman. But none of that was responsible for his getting the job. He got the job because he was appallingly ugly—so short he came only to Mamercus’s chest, thin to the point of emaciation, and badly scarred from a fire in his childhood. His voice, however, was beautiful, and out of his maimed face there looked two very lovely, kind eyes. When informed he was to be freed immediately and that his name would henceforth be Mamercus Aemilius Sarpedon, he knew himself the most fortunate of men; his wage would be much higher and his citizenship Roman. One day he would be able to retire to his home town of Xanthus and live like a potentate.

“It’s an expensive exercise,” said Mamercus to Scaurus as he dropped a roll of paper on Scaurus’s desk. “And, I warn you, as executor for the Servilius Caepio side of things, you’re not going to get off any lighter than the two of us are as Drusus’s executors. Here’s the bill so far. I suggest we split it down the middle between the two estates.”

Scaurus picked up the paper and unfurled it. “Tutor... Four hundred thousand?”

“You go and talk to Duronius!” snapped Mamercus. “I’ve done all the work, you’ve issued all the directives! There are going to be two Roman noblewomen in that house whose virtue has to be ensured, so there can be no handsome tutors living there as well. The new pedagogue is repellently ugly.”

Scaurus giggled. “All right, all right, I’ll take your word for it! Ye gods, what prices we endure today!” He perused further. “Dowry for Servilia Gnaea, two hundred talents— well, I can’t grizzle about that, can I, when I suggested it? House expenses per annum not including repairs and maintenance, one hundred thousand sesterces... Yes, that’s modest enough ... Da da, da dee... Villa at Misenum or Cumae? What on earth for?”

“For Porcia, when Servilia Gnaea is free to marry.”

“Oh, merda! I never thought of that! Of course you’re right. No husband would take her on as well as marry a lump like Servilia Gnaea... Yes, yes, you’ve got a deal! We’ll split it right down the middle.”

They grinned at each other. Scaurus got to his feet. “A cup of wine, Mamercus, I think! What a pity your wife wouldn’t co-operate! It would have saved both of us—in our capacity as executors of the estates—a great deal of money.”

“Since it isn’t coming out of our own purses and the estates can well afford to bear the cost, Marcus Aemilius, why should we care? Domestic peace is worth any price.” He took the wine. “I’m leaving Rome in any case. It’s time I did my military duty.”

“I understand,” said Scaurus, sitting down again.

“Until my mother died I had thought it my principal duty to stay in Rome and help her with the children. She hadn’t been well since Drusus died. Broke her heart. But now the children are properly organized, I’ve no excuse. So I’m going.”

“Who to?”

“Lucius Cornelius Sulla.”

“Good choice,” said Scaurus, nodding. “He’s the coming man.”

“Do you think so? Isn’t he a little old?”

“So was Gaius Marius. And face it, Mamercus—who else is there? Rome is thin of great men at the moment. If it wasn’t for Gaius Marius we wouldn’t have one victory under our belts—and as he rightly says in his report, it was very Pyrrhic at that. He won. But Lupus had lost in a far worse way the day before.”

“True. I’m disappointed in Lucius Julius, however. I would have deemed him capable of great things.”

“He’s too highly strung, Mamercus.”

“I hear the Senate is now calling this the Marsic War.”

“Yes, the Marsic War is how it will go down in the history books, it seems.” Scaurus looked impish. “After all, you know, we can’t call it the Italian War! That would send everyone in Rome into a flat panic—they might think we were actually fighting all of Italy! And the Marsi did send us a formal declaration of war. By calling it the Marsic War, it looks smaller, less important.”

Mamercus stared, astonished. “Who thought of that?”

“Philippus, of course.”

“Oh, I’m glad I’m going!” said Mamercus, getting up. “If I stayed, who knows? I might get inducted into the Senate!”

“You must be of an age to stand for quaestor, surely.”

“I am. But I’m not standing. I shall wait for the censors,” said Mamercus Aemilius Lepidus Livianus.