The Grass Crown by Colleen McCullough Read Free Book Online Page A

I believe him! thought Rutilius Rufus, conscious of a coldness in his bones. Oh, this is a dangerous man! Better that he absents himself. “Then go to Spain with Didius,” he said. “You’re right, it’s the best way to the praetorship. A fresh start, a new reputation. But what a pity you can’t manage election as curule aedile. You’re such a showman you’d put on wonderful games! After that, you’d be a landslide praetor.”
    “I don’t have the money for curule aedile.”
    “Gaius Marius would give it to you.”
    “I won’t ask. Whatever I have, at least I can say I got it for myself. No one gave it to me—I took it.”
    Words which caused Rutilius Rufus to remember the rumor Scaurus had circulated about Sulla during his campaign to be elected a praetor; that in order to obtain enough money to qualify as a knight, he had murdered his mistress, and then to obtain a senatorial census, he had murdered his stepmother. Rutilius Rufus’s inclination had been to dismiss the rumor along with all the other usual rubbish about carnal knowledge of mothers and sisters and daughters, interfering sexually with little boys, and making meals out of excrement. But sometimes Sulla said such things! And then—one wondered…
    There was a stir on the tribunal; Marcus Antonius Orator was coming to an end.
    “Here before you is no ordinary man!” he shouted. “Here before you is a Roman of the Romans, a soldier—and a gallant one!—a patriot, a believer in Rome’s greatness! Why should a man like this pilfer pewter plate from peasants, steal sorrel soup from servants and bad bread from bakers? I ask you, gentlemen of the jury! Have you heard any stories of gargantuan peculations, of murder and rape and misappropriation? No! You’ve had to sit and listen to a shady collection of mean little men, all sniveling at the loss of ten bronze coins, or a book, or a catch of fish!”
    He drew a breath and made himself look even bigger, blessed with the wonderful physique of all the Antonians, the curly auburn hair, the reassuringly unintellectual face. Every last member of the jury was fascinated by him.
    “He’s got them,” said Rutilius Rufus placidly.
    “I’m more interested in what he intends to do with them,” said Sulla, looking alert.
    There was a gasp, a cry of amazement. Antonius Orator strode up to Manius Aquillius and assaulted him! He ripped the toga away, then took the neck of Aquillius’s tunic in both hands, tore it as easily as if it had been tacked together, and left Manius Aquillius standing on the tribunal clad in nothing more than a loincloth.
    “Look!” thundered Antonius. “Is this the lily-white, plucked hide of a saltatrix tonsa? Do you see the flab and paunch of a stay-at-home glutton? No! What you see are scars. War scars, dozens of them. This is the body of a soldier, a brave and very gallant man, a Roman of the Romans, a commander so trusted by Gaius Marius that he was given the task of going behind enemy lines and attacking from the rear! This is the body of one who didn’t stagger screaming off the battlefield when a sword nicked him, or a spear skinned his thigh, or a stone knocked the wind out of him! This is the body of one who bound up serious wounds as mere nuisances and got on with the job of killing enemy!” The advocate’s hands waved in the air, flopped down limply. “Enough. that’s enough. Give me your verdict,” he said curtly.
    They gave their verdict. ABSOLVO.
    “Poseurs!” sniffed Rutilius Rufus. “How can the jurors fall for it? His tunic shreds like paper, and there he stands in a loincloth, for Jupiter’s sake! What does that tell you?”
    “That Aquillius and Antonius cooked it up beforehand,” said Marius, smiling broadly.
    “It tells me that Aquillius doesn’t have enough to risk standing there without a loincloth,” said Sulla.
    After the laugh which followed, Rutilius Rufus said to Marius, “Lucius Cornelius says he’s going to Nearer Spain with Titus