The First Man in Rome by Colleen McCullough Read Free Book Online Page A

knights, where he stood with a perfect view of the place of sacrifice. Though he had no right to be there, he knew no one would ever evict him. Few of the knights knew who he was, and even among the senators were faces unfamiliar to him, but there were enough men present who did know him to ensure that his presence would be tolerated.
    Some things no amount of isolation from the mainstream of noble public life could eradicate; perhaps they were, after so many generations—a thousand years of generations— actually inside the blood, little warning bells sounding knells of doom or disaster. Of choice he had never bothered to follow the political goings-on in the Forum Romanum, having concluded it was better to be ignorant than to chafe to participate in a life he could not have. And yet, standing at the front of the ranks of knights, he knew it was going to be a bad year. His blood told him this was to be another in what had proven to be a long line of bad years, ever since Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus had been murdered, and then, ten years later, his brother Gaius Gracchus forced to take his own life. Knives had flashed in the Forum, and Rome's luck was broken.
    It was almost as if Rome was dwindling away, running out of political puff. A gathering, he thought, eyes sweeping over the assembled ranks, of mediocrities and nonentities. Men stood there, half-asleep on their feet despite the chilly drizzle, who had been responsible for the deaths of more than thirty thousand precious Roman and Italian soldiers in less than ten years, most in the name of personal greed. Money again. Money, money, money. Though power entered into it too. One should never forget or underestimate power. Which drove which? Which was the means, which the end? That probably depended upon the individual. But where in this sorry lot were the great ones, the ones who would enhance rather than diminish Rome?
    The white bull was behaving badly. Little wonder, looking at the consuls of the year. I for one, he thought, would not willingly put my white neck under the chopper for the likes of Spurius Postumius Albinus, patrician though he might be. And where did they get their money from, anyway? Then he remembered. The Postumius Albinuses always married money. Curse their eyes.
    Blood began to flow. There was a great deal of blood in a fully grown bull. What a waste. Potency, power, pile-driver force. But what a beautiful color, richly crimsoned, slick yet thick, coursing downhill among the feet. It fascinated him; he couldn't tear his gaze away. Was everything crammed with energy always some shade of red? Fire. Blood. Hair— his hair. Penises. Senatorial shoes. Muscle. Molten metal. Lava.
    Time to go. Go where? Still full of the vision of so much blood, his eyes lifted, encountered the steady fierce stare of a tall senator in the toga praetexta of a senior magistrate.
    Amazing! Now that was a man! But who? He didn't have the look of any of the Famous Families; isolated from his kind though he was, Sulla yet knew their distinctive physical features unerringly.
    Whoever the fellow was, he certainly didn't belong to a Famous Family. For one thing, his nose said he had a dollop of Celt in him; it was too short and straight to belong to a pure Roman. Picenum, then? And look at those gigantic eyebrows! Celt again. His face bore two battle scars, neither disfiguring. Yes, a formidable customer, fierce and proud and intelligent. A real eagle. Who? Not a consular, them Sulla knew down to the oldest one living. A praetor then. Not one of this year's praetors, however, for they were clotted together behind the consuls looking tremendously dignified and about as promising as an old queen with a bad dose of piles.
    Aaaaaaah! Sulla turned abruptly and stalked away from all of it, including the ex-praetor with the mien of an eagle. Time to go. Go where? Where else was there to go save the only refuge he had, between the moistly ageing bodies of his stepmother and his