Sulla and Silo: Volume One in the Series the Other Rome

Copyright © 2013 by Tito Kithes Athano.

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4797-8976-4

             Ebook        978-1-4797-8977-1

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Rev. date: 02/15/2013

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Contents

Author’s Introduction To The Series

Chapter 1

663 Ab Urbe Condita (91 B.C.)

Chapter 2

664 Ab Urbe Condita (90 B.C.)

Chapter 3

665 Ab Urbe Condita (89 B.C.)

Chapter 4

666 Ab Urbe Condita (88 B.C.)

Chapter 5

667 & 668 Ab Urbe Condita (87 & 86 B.C.)

Chapter 6

669 Ab Urbe Condita (85 B.C.)

Chapter 7

670 Ab Urbe Condita (84 B.C.)

Chapter 8

671 Ab Urbe Condita (83 B.C.)

Chapter 9

672 Ab Urbe Condita (82 B.C.)

Chapter 10

673 Ab Urbe Condita (81 B.C.)

Chapter 11

674 Ab Urbe Condita (80 B.C.)

Chapter 12

675 Ab Urbe Condita (79 B.C.)

Author’s Notes

To The First Volume

Author’s Introduction

To The Series

My name is Tito Kithes Athano, and I was a Head of History at Malitora Museum (or as you would say, Professor of History at Malitora University). An institute that does not exist in a city that does not exist in this timeline. I was doing field research when things went awry. My period of expertise is the Transition Age, the period of the Roman Republic from the Italian Enfranchisement to the establishment of the Federation. The subject I was researching was the development of the interpersonal relationships within the Sertorian Council during the turbulent but relatively poorly-recorded years 679 to 688 AUC, during which time Sertorius held sway from the Nile to the Indus to the plains of the Ukraine. This time and this Council were critical to the eventual Hellenisation of the Republic, just as it was inevitable that the Empire would become Greek when the Imperial Capital was moved to Constantinople in your history. It is strange how there remain so many co-incidences between my history and yours, regardless of how far they diverged, and doubtless the educated reader will spot these co-incidences as they arise.

Of course, that will sound like so much fantasy to you, Gentle Reader. If you have read your history you would know perfectly well that Sertorius died in Spain in 681 AUC, and never went to the east. Which brings me to my own story.

I was conducting my research in person, using a device I will simply call a ‘Time Machine’, and whose workings I do not even pretend to understand; I leave that to the engineers to worry about. All I knew about it was how to set the spatial and temporal co-ordinates, and the duration timer. On this particular mission I had dropped back to prepare for and attend the Comitia Meetings discussing the Italian Franchise legislation. I had hoped to pose as a chronicler and interview some of the main players about their attitudes towards certain Italian nobles at that stage in the process. Had they ever expected at that time that Italians would be the key players in the Late Republic?

Of course, I could not phrase it in this way; The Ethics Committee and I had spent months to design precisely what I could divulge, what I could not, and how I was to present myself to each individual person in my plan of research. Instead I would be asking them more neutral questions, such as ‘How do you think this will play out over the next couple of generations?’ or ‘What was your opinion of this person at that particular time?’ Although Sertorius himself was a Roman Popularis, his close support from the Italianist Faction was the key to his political success, and I wanted to know how his readiness to court both Populares and Italianists was viewed by both factions at that time. He was certainly prescient.

During this mission I managed to gather quite a bit of information, and when the timer warned me that I was due for recall to my own time I casually strolled into the Temple of Saturn so my disappearance would not be observed.

The machine usually returns the traveller to the departure location with a temporal safety margin of a tenth of a second to make sure the traveller does not re-materialise into his outgoing body; to a typical observer, it seems that the traveller has never left, even though he might have experienced days, months, sometimes years in his own time consciousness. And there is usually a spatial margin of about one hundred millimetres from the floor, to make sure any errors did not re-materialise him with his feet set into the floor. Such overlapping of solid material can be disastrous; even re-appearing into thin air can cause medical complications, which is why transport is always done in a very low pressure chamber, with enough pure oxygen to achieve a barely breathable atmosphere at a minimum pressure, and with some sort of engineering trick to cause the immediate return zone to become even more rarefied during the instant of materialisation. Of course, that can’t all be done to the target space on the outward trip, but the engineers have developed some sort of technique to locally displace as much air as possible at the instant of materialisation; but that is never as good as in the laboratory conditions and the typical outbound traveller feels very sick for some time after his arrival. A side effect of this sudden and extreme reduction of air density, and its collapse back to normal an instant later, is a very loud noise like an explosion, which is why we always try to materialise well away from observers when we leave, and in the lab when we return. As a backup the return timer is also fitted with a device that does the same air-thinning trick, but even with this redundancy a few researchers have died; historical research can be a dangerous business.

So I found an unobserved corner in Saturn’s Temple, waited for the timer to tick down, and then bent my knees as the zero time approached. This is standard practice, so when you fall on re-materialisation you don’t drop onto locked-out knees and break something.

It was certainly more than a one hundred millimetre drop! It seemed like six feet or more, and the wind was knocked out of me. But even more disconcerting was the darkness. Where were the lab lights? And the headache! And the nausea! And my whole body was tingling, burning and cramping at the same time! It felt like stories I had heard from the first trials, when subjects had travelled without modern atmospheric density precautions. I was so thankful for the redundancy benefit of the return timer, or I surely would have died from gas embolisms. Then I felt something wet on my cheek. With a rush of dread that probably included an adrenalin shock, if only my body was not already too distressed to feel it, I realised that a large black dog was licking my face. Then, out of the deeper gloom, I saw another approach. But I was effectively paralysed from the high-atmospheric-pressure materialisation; I was completely helpless. Then one of the dogs started to bark.

It seemed like an hour to me, full of dread and my body racked with pain from the included gases; but I was later assured it was less than a minute after hearing the huge boom of my return before I was found. I was bathed with light and I heard a door opening behind me and a voice calling, presumably to me. I was in no condition to respond, even if I had understood the language. The door slammed shut, and soon opened again, this time with two male voices. I was not capable of even feeble movement, but could control my body enough to give a low moan. There were steps approaching me, but keeping their distance as they circled around to see my face and come within my field of vision. Another light, this one in front of me, snapped on and blinded me. There was a sharp short command, and the dog that had been licking me left me. At least the dogs are trained, I thought with relief.

I closed my eyes against the glare and asked in slurred tones, ‘What has happened?’. In return one of the men said something I could not understand; but I could tell he was alarmed and defensive. I squinted one eye open to see that both of them were holding long-bladed knives in each hand.

I still could not move, my body still cramped and in agony, but I was starting to think more clearly. I could not recognise the language, although there were not as many languages in my time as there are in this timeline. And certainly not as many among men who have a European appearance.

But they were not responding to my Oiku speech, which was a derivative of Koine Greek and effectively the world tongue in my time. I tried again, this time in Chinish, although these men were not Chinish in their appearance. But I think that one of them realised what I was trying to do; Oiku and Chinish sound so different that he realised I was looking for a common language. He demanded back at me in a few different sentences, with pauses between. I recognised none of them.

In desperation I tried Latin, which I had been speaking for the last month; but very few understand Latin in my time. It is only used by specialist historians, it having become localised to the West Mediterranean basin before going extinct soon after 900 AUC when Greek was adopted throughout the Republic. Latin is in my world what Ancient Egyptian or Akkadian is in yours.

But to my shock, he recognised it! Then, with an excruciatingly bad accent and stumbling for words, the stranger lowered the knife he had been pointing at me, and asked ‘Are you speaking Latin?’.

I did not reply immediately; that was when my bowels cramped and I fouled my toga. The associated bout of vomiting probably did not convey a good impression either. Then I answered ‘Yes, but your Latin is not very good.’ The stranger laughed, as though my incontinence had been my response to his poor command of the tongue and my reply an explanation. When I was able to move I slowly rolled out of my toga to reveal that I had no weapons, and then struggled to stand naked before them. They started to relax a bit more.

That was how I first met Alan and his son-in-law Brian (not their real names, to protect them). When I told them where I had come from, they obviously thought I was mad; but there I was, with a toga, with my paper notes in Latin in my carry-bag and my visual and sound recordings in my touchboard, yet completely baffled by every European language they tried on me—though some of what I later learned was Brian’s Spanish sounded similar to Latin. By now they were convinced that I was no threat to them, and they were kind enough to take me into the house and allow me to clean up. They fitted me with some of Alan’s clothes, too; we were similar enough in size for some of his loose casual shorts and Tee-shirts to fit me.

Alan had studied Latin at school, which is why he recognised it; but it was schoolboy Latin, and he was very rusty. He eventually took me into his house and displayed a map of his locality. The landforms were the same! I had materialised back in the place occupied by the research lab in Malitora Museum; except that the Museum was not here. I was in a small town whose name I will not mention. I am only glad that in this timeline the area of my return had not been filled with earth, or a wall built through my re-materialisation point. I had suffered no more than a fall to natural ground level instead of onto the lab floor. I am indeed glad that the Machine had been installed on the ground floor, and not ten stories higher! I later determined, by comparison of calendars, that I had also returned to the precise point in time, as well.

Next Alan started mentioning some Roman names; the first was, to my total surprise, Caius Julius Caesar! The Man of Shame in my history was apparently the most famous Roman of all in this timeline. Alan clicked around on his computer a bit more, and mentioned Caius Marius next. There was a name and a personal history I recognised, at least at first. But when he started talking about the Italian War I was completely lost. Eventually we pinned down that the split in our histories was some time around 662 AUC. That was when it dawned on me; my return timer had somehow caught onto the wrong thread, or whatever those temporal engineers called them. The split had happened the moment my return was triggered.

But that was a few years ago now, and in the meantime I have had to learn English. Alan has been kind enough to feed, clothe and shelter me during that time, and to protect me from the less scrupulous in this rather vicious society (at least in comparison to my own timeline). In between learning English and other aspects of my new world, I have written a history of my old world, starting at the time of our separation. Hopefully it will earn enough to compensate Alan for his expenses in caring for me. At first I wrote in Latin and Oiku, not having the English skills; but I translated these early passages as my understanding of English improved.

Although it is written as a historical novel, and it does indeed simplify many aspects of Roman life for those who do not have the historian’s patience with such things, it is a reasonably accurate retelling of what actually happened in my timeline. While I have used my own reconstructions of the details of many of the conversations, I have done this only where the surviving records in my timeline had left gaps, and I assure my readers that the main thrust is accurate, consistent with what has already been established by proper scholarly research. The characters are true to their real natures, and the perceptions by the characters of each other are faithfully reproduced. Remember, I studied this period intensely. As you will read in this first volume, we had developed the Printing Press within Sulla’s lifetime, which prompted virtually everyone of any importance to write his memoirs to defend and explain his own actions, and others to write biographies and histories. It also ensured thousands of copies of almost everything were produced. And we did not go through your Dark Ages, in which you lost so many important documents. So compared to your scholars, who have to scratch hard to establish even a basic outline, the scholars in my timeline suffer from an overabundance of raw data and their task is to sort through it all, to separate propaganda from fact.

I had the time, resources and the data to know each significant player in this period as well as I knew my own family; and after the Time Machine became a reliable research tool, I have even spoken with some of the men I write about!

So read my offering, and ponder how different your history might have been. More books will be released as I have the opportunity to write them.

Chapter 1

663 Ab Urbe Condita (91 B.C.)

Caius, this is the fullness of time! Marcus Livius Drusus said to the man walking beside him. He marvelled at the circumstances; here at his side was the man hailed as the Third Founder of Rome, a Consul for an unimaginable six terms, and saviour of Rome against the Cimbri and the Teutones. After all others had not only been defeated, but had also lost the last armies standing between Rome and its enemies, Caius Marius had raised new armies from no-where, trained them overnight, defeated the main enemy force although out-numbered in one gigantic battle, and then force-marched his men to defeat the second enemy force which had overwhelmed his co-consul Quintus Lutatius Catulus on the other front.

And this man was supporting him, was following him, as though he were the natural leader in this group. He looked to his left, and saw Marcus Aemelius Scaurus, the Leader of the Senate, ex-Consul and ex-Censor, at his other side. Behind him followed Marcus Antonius Orator, another ex-Consul and former Censor; and Lucius Cornelius Sulla, a brilliant Urban Praetor who will inevitably be Consul in his turn. ‘Yet they all acknowledge me as their leader in this great enterprise!’

Indeed it is, Marcus Livius! Marius affirmed warmly, a grin of complete satisfaction sparking in the torchlight. This Italian hayseed with no Greek has never been as thrilled; no, not even after repulsing the Germans, not in any Triumph. Tomorrow will be a glorious day!

All around these six men milled a crowd of hundreds of the Lower Classes, cheering Drusus as if a celebrity gladiator, but with a respect that bordered on religious devotion. They had started to follow him home as an escort after the first few meetings, but over the last few meetings the numbers had swelled each night.

Now they reached his house. Drusus turned to the crowd, and called for order. The crowd was stilled to a man. Drusus raised his voice, to be heard at the back even by those who could not see him. Then he followed the pattern he had established four meetings ago; he invited his motley bodyguard inside his house.

Friends, he greeted them, to be met by an immediate cheer. He motioned for quiet again, smiling in appreciation. Friends, please come inside with me tonight. Another cheer rose from the mass. Tomorrow, you will vote to welcome my friends, your friends, indeed, men who have been Friends and Allies of Rome for generations. You will vote to welcome them into your home, into your Rome, in appreciation of their faithfulness over hundreds of years. So it is only fitting that I should welcome you into my house tonight. Come, eat, drink; and celebrate that it falls to you, my friends, to be the ones who will bring justice to our Italian brothers; it will be you who will fulfil the promises Rome made to their fathers.

The crowd rose in another roar of support. He called for his Master of House to open the door, gestured his Senatorial friends through the door, and stood to one side as most of the crowd filed through his doors into the huge atrium and garden beyond. As they passed through, a queue of serving girls and male slaves offered trays of tarts and cups of watered wine to each. When all were inside, and gathered in groups chatting with each other, Drusus went around to every group to personally thank them for their support.

A quick gesture from Drusus to Caius Marius in between groups got the message across, and Caius spoke to the other Senators. They broke apart and started to press the flesh themselves.

I can’t believe this! Scaurus said to himself. All these Fifth Class, some even not in a Class, they are so low; but they will be able to tell their children and grandchildren about tonight! It would come close to topping Romulus and Remus, because Marius is already hailed as the Third Founder of Rome, and there is no doubt that within his lifetime Drusus will be hailed as the Fourth. And they get humble me and Marcus Antonius Orator, both of us Consulars and Censors, thrown in with the bargain!

Sulla, dutifully doing his rounds with his utterly convincing charming smile, was not quite so taken by the event. Lucius Cornelius Sulla was a man accustomed to playing a part. As a wastrel youth he had immersed himself in the world of theatre and actors, as a young man he had infiltrated Jugurtha’s stronghold in the Numidian War, as a man coming into full power he had posed as a Celt to gain intelligence for Caius Marius, and in his maturity he had insinuated himself into the lives of several prominent Romans who had made the mistake of trusting him—and died as a result. He knew a pretender when he saw one, because he was the prince of pretenders.

And there was one group of five men who did not seem as relaxed and joyful as they pretended to be. Perhaps they were close friends, and one of them had suffered a misfortune lately; but every time he looked over to them in between other groups, the same impression came to mind; they were neither supporters in full celebration, nor friends commiserating with a friend. They looked more like soldiers preparing for a mission.

Sulla thought carefully. Drusus was a man of total integrity, a quality that Sulla thought was greatly over-rated compared to the ability to get the job done by whatever means; therefore, if he were to mention anything to Drusus, it would destroy his political bonhomie this evening. Sulla would have to take control of this himself, and subtly.

He wandered across to Cratippus, Drusus’ Master of House. Cratippus, you are to nod as if I am simply giving you catering instructions. Do you understand? Cratippus would not have achieved his current position if he had been a fool. He nodded.

Good. I want you to arrange that there will always be a few good, strong men near Marcus Livius at all times. They are to be cheery, offering pastries to the masses, but must be ready to defend their master with their lives at the first sign of trouble. Cratippus nodded again.

You are a good man, Cratippus. Cratippus, despite himself, was elated at this praise. Everyone in Rome knew that Sulla did not suffer fools.

Drusus stood on the coping of the fish pool in the middle of his atrium, a half-body above the general level, and called for quiet. Thank you, my friends, for your courtesy to spend this evening with me. A cheer rose from the crowd. Drusus waved it down with that ever-so-winning smile. But tomorrow will be a big day. We all need our sleep. So If I could ask you to take your leave now… He gestured towards to door, and walked over to take up station beside it.

The crowds drifted towards the door, each man taking Drusus’ hand as he left. One group seemed to deliberately hang back, as though they were more interested in being last out than actually taking the hand of Drusus for the second time that night.

Sulla nodded towards Cratippus, and motioned that men should stand by the exit. Cratippus nodded; soon there were several strong male slaves lined up with trays of pastries for the crowd to take as they left.

Sulla kept to the shadows, his eyes on the suspect group of five. There was no doubt now; they were hanging back, to ensure they were the last out. Then Sulla saw something very disturbing; a glint of steel, as one of the group tucked a blade into his sleeve. So that’s it! Sulla thought to himself; take the right hand, and stab with the left! He quietly admired the planning. Sulla slipped into the kitchen to grab a carving knife and slip it into his toga, then quietly joined the line of the Senators who were farewelling the crowd out the door. He deliberately pushed into the place one space ahead of Drusus, and started the routine of smiling, thanking, offering his right hand, and slapping shoulders with his left.

The first of the last group came to him. He took the offered right hand, then drove his knee into the man’s groin. Immediately he stepped in front of Drusus as he dropped his right hand from his victim, grabbed the knife from the fold of his toga, and called to the slaves Seize them all!

The group of would-be assassins had all been facing the line of senators. The slaves on the other side of the gauntlet dropped their swerving trays and fell on the backs of the would-be assassins. It took only a moment for Caius Marius to add his aging but still powerful frame to the effort, and the other senators joined the struggle to force the five to the ground. The clattering of a blade on the tiled floor was unmistakable. Only Drusus, blocked by Sulla’s back, stood aloof as the other household slaves rushed to assist.

As the slaves and senators combined their efforts and subdued the men, Sulla said to Drusus If you do not grant these slaves both freedom and adoption, then I will buy them off you and do it myself! They have saved Rome!

Drusus stood still, stunned by events. Marius, ever a good soldier, saw what his trusted legate had done, and allowed him to continue in control.

Sulla ordered the men bound, and taken into the private rooms. Each man was hauled off to his own room, and strapped to a guest bed, guarded by three household slaves each. Just three questions, and write down their answers, Sulla instructed these slaves, and then ticking the questions off his fingers as he spoke. What are their names, and ask each to name his colleagues as well; who sent them; and would they prefer to live, or be sliced to pieces one bit at a time.

At last, Sulla turned to Drusus, who was only now recovering his balance. My apologies, Marcus Livius, for presuming to order your slaves without your permission. But I have experience in these matters, and did not wish to disturb you in front of your clients.

Drusus nodded his agreement. Caius Marius always says that you are a good man to have in a tight spot. Now I see why. He slumped onto a seat, emotionally exhausted. Scaurus sat beside him.

This smells like Caepio’s work to me, Scaurus declared.

We will know soon enough, Sulla replied. I’ll have a quiet chat with each in turn.

As if they will tell us anything! Scaurus snorted.

Sulla did not respond. He just gave a smile that would terrify a bear, and turned towards the bedrooms. The kitchen knife was still in his hand.

Cratippus was leaving one of the guest rooms as Sulla turned, so Sulla walked over to him. Cratippus anticipated the request for a report. They are all bound, lord Sulla, but will not say anything.

Follow me, Cratippus, and watch. Then have the same done to all the others. Sulla stepped into the guest room to see a man spreadeagled across a bed, tied wrist and ankle to the bedposts.

A good start, Sulla said flatly, but we can do better. Don’t just tie him to the corner posts; also tie him to the posts below the side rails. And make it tight!

The slaves took more bindings and complied. It was obvious that this pulled the man’s arms back, slightly hyper-extending the elbows and shoulders. The increased stress showed on the man’s face. Sulla stood beside the bed. Three questions; what is your name, and the names of your fellows; who sent you; and would you prefer to live, or to die slowly and painfully?

The captive snorted in reply. "When I do not report back, those who sent me will know where I am. They will come, and find you are abusing a Roman citizen. A real Roman citizen, not one of your Italian turds! If I am harmed, you will be prosecuted!"

Sulla smiled, a chilling smile. I think I am going to enjoy this evening. Then to the slaves, Turn the bed up on its end!

Within moments, the bed was vertical. Because the captives ankles had been tied below the side rails of the bed, the mattress thrust his body forward of his feet, and he hung by his arms.

This is a bit like crucifixion, isn’t it? Sulla mused. Let’s give him an hour. If he still wants to be the hero, we can move onto the second stage; I call it crucifixion with distractions".

Then he addressed the captive directly. Each of you five who co-operate will live. As soon as you tell us everything we want to know, you will come to no further harm. Marcus Livius will not even have you charged; you will be completely forgiven. But each of you who doesn’t co-operate will wish he had never lived; and that will also apply to your wives and children. So spend the next hour saying to yourself, ‘if any of the other four talk, but I don’t, then my family and I will die horribly, and for nothing. But if I talk, then I will have saved my family, and done no more harm to my fellows or my Patron than if I had died, because one of the others will talk anyway.

Sulla gave him another of those terrifying smiles. I quite enjoy these interrogations. Feel free to hold out for as long as you can. I’ll be back within the hour.

The same process was followed in the other four rooms in turn. Then Sulla went to join the other Senators, sitting together by Drusus’ ornamental waterfall so the sound of the water would prevent anyone overhearing their discussion.

Drusus rose as Sulla approached, extending his hands in welcome. Lucius Cornelius, I owe you my life; which is a small thing compared to the debt Rome owes you.

Sulla took the proffered hands, and smiled more warmly. "And that is small, compared to the debt Rome owes you, he replied. What have my political superiors decided?" he asked as he joined the group.

Scaurus spoke for the group as the two men sat. First, we should act as though nothing unusual has happened. The vote must go smoothly tomorrow; we don’t want Philippus acting the drama queen again and disrupting the vote. If this attempt leaks out, he might declare a state of emergency or something similar.

You forget, perhaps, that he is already aware of this attempt, Sulla responded. And when he sees Marcus Livius on the podium tomorrow, he will know things have gone amiss.

Yes; but if he shows his knowledge of that, then he is also showing his complicity. Scaurus grinned mirthlessly. And if any of his puppets suggests that something is amiss, then Marcus Livius can quite truthfully say that not a hostile hand was laid on him, not a weapon raised in his direction. It must be just another scare story put out by Philippus.

Sulla nodded. So we want the vote to go ahead. I expect we should win, but do we have protection against violence? After tonight’s efforts, I would not be surprised if they have hired a school of gladiators to break up the meeting.

This time Caius Marius was smiling. Perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier. Many of my veterans have remained my clients. I have arranged for more than five hundred to guard the meeting tomorrow. I have also put out the word to some of my less reputable contacts that any gang that tries to disrupt the meeting will be identified, and I will hunt them down. All agitators can expect to wake up dead sometime within the next few weeks. But you have a point, Lucius, so perhaps I should send out word this evening to any gladiator schools to the same effect.

Sulla nodded again. So what happens after the meeting? Every victory is no more than the start of the struggle to hold the ground just won.

Scaurus took up the lead again. If we can determine exactly who launched this attack, we will prosecute. Marcus Livius has the huge advantage here, that he has always been scrupulous to follow the law and to honour his oaths. This has led some to think he is weak, but it is a sign of true strength. But it also means he has enormous credibility when he uses the law offensively. Any person he prosecutes will be condemned, if for no other reason than the fact that Drusus is bringing the case.

Sulla broke in here. Don’t worry; we will know who is behind this plot before the sun rises tomorrow. The other five looked to him inquiringly. I have a special gift; it has to do with the polite way I ask questions. He smiled innocently; but Marius had known him long enough to see beneath the smile. He shuddered.

There was action at the front door. The bodyguard detachments for Caius Marius and Scaurus had arrived almost simultaneously, to conduct their masters home through the dark and dangerous streets.

Question our would-be assassins however you like, Lucius Cornelius, Drusus allowed. But just try to keep it quiet. The neighbours might not like the noise.

Sulla spread his hands. If the neighbours hear, and if word gets around; then that might deter any other enemies from making the same mistake.

The other four stirred uneasily. Sulla certainly was a man you did not want as an enemy. Sensing he had made his point, Sulla stood. I think the first man is expecting me to drop in for a quiet chat. I’ll be back in an hour or so. That is, I assume we will be staying here as guests tonight? He looked to Drusus.

Yes, of course, Drusus replied.

And, please, Marcus Livius, set a strong and well-armed guard tonight. In fact, as our bodyguard detachments arrive, put them on guard duty. When these ruffians don’t report back to their master, he might try something rash. Once the guard is set, all of you grab some sleep. I will wake you when I have gained some information from our daggermen. Sulla turned back to the occupied guest rooms.

The first man was obviously distressed by the crucifixion position; the additional thrust on his back from the fullness of the mattress was clearly a more severe stress position than ordinary crucifixion. Oh, you poor darling! Sulla exclaimed as he entered. Did I forget to tell them to lay you flat? Oh, I am so sorry! He motioned for the slaves to set the bed level again.

Then he took the kitchen knife from his toga again. Slowly he approached the bed, with the captive spreadeagled on it. He saw the terror rise in the man’s eyes, even as he breathed more easily.

Sulla slipped the point of the knife into the neck opening of the man’s tunic, and cut the fabric across to the left shoulder and down the sleeve. Then the same to the right sleeve. Then, the point of the knife went into the belt at his waist. Then a final cut down the front of the tunic.

Sulla worked with great care and concentration, and slowly. It was eerie to watch, and Sulla knew it would have this effect. He stood back, as if to admire his work; and he licked his lips and sucked on them, slowly deliberately. I want to enjoy every moment of this, my friend. He said softly, slowly. Every moment, he repeated.

Then he grabbed the side of the tunic under the armpit, and slowly pulled it out. The weight of the captive clamped the back to the mattress, so it tore. Sulla rolled his eyes in delight. He tore the cloth right away, and then did the same on the other side. And then the sleeves. Sulla was breathing heavily now, in quick pants of sexual intensity. He stood back, eyes caressing the body in front of him. The captive was wild-eyed with terror. Exactly the response Sulla was hoping for.

And now… Sulla whispered, as if to himself. He stepped forward and gently, slowly, slipped the blade under the man’s loincloth at the front of the right hip, and started sawing at it. Suddenly it was soaked with urine; what almost an hour of crucifixion could not trigger, the dread of Sulla’s slow, sadistic caress had achieved in a few minutes. The man was as good as broken.

Oh, what a pity! Sulla cooed. Now you are all wet! Don’t worry, I’ll dry you myself. Then, without turning away, Slave, please get me a towel. One of the slaves passed Sulla the guest’s towel, kept in the room as a standard piece of the fit-out. Sulla laid it across the man’s belly.

Sulla gently and slowly finished cutting through the cloth, then did the same on the opposite side. He grabbed the front top of the loincloth, and eased it out from under the man’s rump. He gazed longingly at the exposed genitalia, licking his lips again. Ahhh! he sighed softly. He reached again for his knife.

No, please! I will tell you everything! the captive exploded. You promised no harm if I talk, and I will talk!

Sulla pursed his lips together as if in anger, or annoyance; he kept his eyes locked on the man’s groin. His grip on the knife tightened and he shook it in frustration. Then he exhaled explosively, turned to the sideboard in the room, and slammed the knife down on its surface. He leant on the front edge on both hands.

Very well, Sulla threw over his shoulder. Tell me your name, and the names of your fellows. Then the full story of who hired you, and what your orders were. Sulla would not turn around to face him. One of you slaves, write down what he says. When I get back, I want to read his full statement before we let him off that bed. Right now, I’m going to the next room! Sulla stood erect again, but still did not turn around. Perhaps at least one of them will have a bit more courage! he muttered sulkily, and went out the door.

The captive in the next room had heard his fellow break. He knew there was no point in remaining silent now; only the certainty that whatever dreadful fate had been threatened in the first room would now be visited upon him, unless he too begged for mercy. Please! . . . I will tell… everything, he gasped to the slaves watching him, even as he heard the door opening at Sulla’s hand.

Ah! A man slightly wiser than his companion! Sulla beamed. See to it that you do indeed tell everything; and that it matches what the others say. He stood in front of the bed for a moment, eyes running up and down the captive.

Oh, perhaps you should lay the bed out flat; he will find it easier to talk that way. Sulla looked about the room as the bed was brought back to level. Do you have paper and ink here? Good! I want all names involved in this scheme, and a full account of everything they were ordered to do, and what to do afterwards, who they were to report to; the lot! He nodded in satisfaction. I’ll be back! Sulla left that room, and entered the next in the line, with a petulant cast to his face

So far, we have two out of two who have agreed to tell all. The cowardly bastards! Sulla stormed. He glared at the captive. What about you? Are you as much a woman as those other two, or are you man enough to give me some entertainment?

I have… nothing… to tell, he gasped. Sulla’s eyes brightened and a smile returned to his face.

Excellent! Sulla rejoiced. Nothing to tell! I’ll be back later, when I have time to enjoy you properly. Sulla had made sure that his words from the doorway were loud enough for the fourth captive to hear, if not the fifth as well. As he walked into the room he saw that this had achieved the desired result.

I will talk. The man hanging from the bedframe said as he entered.

Sulla stood for a moment, staring at the man. Right; that’s three out of four who will talk; at least I’ve got one who will provide me with some entertainment tonight. Put his bed flat, and write his story out for me. Every name, every order, including where to report afterwards. Again, this was deliberately loud enough to he heard in the fifth room.

The fifth captive was also ready to tell his story when Sulla walked in. Once again, he gave his summary orders and set the interrogation going. Then he strolled back to the third room. As he opened the door, a beatific smile on his face, he stopped.

Ah! I left something I need in the first room. He closed the door behind him, and returned to the first man, still naked on the bed.

How goes my little poppet? he asked as he entered. He gazed at the body spread before him. I so much wanted you to be stronger! he said wistfully. But at least one of your fellows is prepared to humour me! He picked up the knife he had left on the sideboard, cast one more longing gaze at the bed, and walked out.

The third captive was definitely struggling to breathe. Sulla was surprised at the huge difference the constant pressure of the mattress seemed to have on a man being crucified. He ordered the bed to be laid flat. Sulla, putting on his lover’s face, stood beside the bed and smiled so softly on his victim, and lovingly stroked his chest.

I have good news! Sulla cooed. The other four have all agreed to talk; that means we can spend all night together. No interruptions, no need to hurry!

Please, I have nothing to tell! The man pleaded, now that he could breathe again. I do not know these other men; they met me in a drinking-house, and offered me one hundred denarii to help them get rid of some fellow who was their enemy. I didn’t even know their names, until I heard them talking to each other. And I didn’t know their target until we were in the atrium.

Never mind the others, poppet; we have each other now! Sulla said with such great fondness, and running his fingertips down his captive’s chest. My name is Lucius; what is yours?

The man on the bed swallowed. Piso, he replied.

Well, Piso. Now we are already on first name terms. Let’s get to know each other better. Sulla whispered sweetly as he slowly cut Piso’s tunic away.

You promised that I would come to no harm if I told you all I knew. Piso started to weep in despair. I have told you everything I can! Please believe me!

Oh, Piso; you are playing your part so well tonight! Sulla said admiringly. You are so brave to hold back so much information, and so clever in pretending that you have nothing more to tell! This is going to be so good! Sulla shivered as if in an ecstasy already.

But what have I held back from you, my lord? Piso begged.

Please, call me Lucius; you can call me ‘my lord’ when we get to the interesting parts. Sulla rebuked him gently, and started to tear away the cut tunic.

What have I not told you, Lucius? Piso asked again, with more control.

How would I know, you silly thing? Sulla said teasingly. You haven’t told me!

Piso choked back another sob.

For example, Sulla prompted him, What role did each of you have in the attack? Were you all going to go for Drusus, or was it intended that only one would, and the others cover the escape? Exactly how were you going to do it?

Oh, I see what you mean, Piso responded. The idea was that just as the first of us was about to step out the door, and the second in line was about to farewell Drusus, then the first and second would catch Drusus between them. The other three were supposed to provide crowd control, to ensure the first two had the time to make sure Drusus was dead. Then we were to run into the Subura.

What a clever plan, Sulla praised him. Where to in the Subura were you intending to run?

I don’t know. I was just told to follow them.

What are their names?

Gnaeus was in charge; he is the one with red hair. Sextus is the thin one. The young guy was called Marcus.

One more name to go, sweetie, Sulla said teasingly as he took the hilt of the knife between thumb and forefinger, and dragged the point down past Piso’s navel.

I don’t think I heard it! pleaded Piso. I told you, I had never seen them before tonight.

Remember harder, Sulla urged, momentarily reversing the drag of the blade so that the tip pricked Piso’s belly. Piso gasped.

They just called him Lefty; I don’t think I heard them call him by name.

See! You can remember more when I coax you! Sulla cooed. Now, when and how were you going to get paid?

They gave me fifty denarii; it is in my pouch, along with a couple of other coins I already had. They said I would get the rest afterwards.

You are remembering so much! Sulla whispered approvingly. Now, what other names did they mention? Was there any hint of who had hired them?

Piso’s eyes opened wider, in dread. No other names. In fact, Gnaeus told me we were going after his personal enemy, not that he had been hired by some-one else.

Sulla stroked Piso’s cheek, like a mother caring for a sick child. I have to go now and chat with my other guests. Please be patient, because I will be back. Sulla smiled a farewell, and went to the door. Soon he was in the first room. This was young Marcus. His story largely confirmed Piso’s, but with some extra detail.

He and his three fellows were petty criminals, living mainly by robbery at night and petty theft. They had been approached three days ago by a lone man, dressed poorly. They were surprised when he put on the table in front of them a pouch, and then tipped it up into his palm to show them a gold mina. He handed this to Gnaeus, and then sat with them.

That is yours to keep, he said. Otherwise I expect you would follow me out, anyway. He said with a smile. But if you want four more of them for one night’s work, I have a proposition.

Gnaeus just nodded once, slowly.

Go to the Comitia tomorrow; follow Drusus home with the crowd; go into his house to eat and drink, as has become his custom lately. Then kill him. If you don’t kill him tomorrow, you have a second chance the next night. But before the sun rises one day after that, he must be dead. I don’t care how you do it, just kill him; the details are yours to figure out. Then, at the Comitia meeting, look for me; I will be at the back right-hand corner. That is when you get your extra four minas.

Gnaeus nodded again. We’ll think about it. If we agree, we’ll do it, and see you tomorrow.

No, said the slave. You will do it, because you accepted the downpayment. If you do not, Gnaeus, and Marcus, and Sextus, and Sinstratus, you will not live long. Yes, we know who you are, and my friends are already back with our Patron telling him where you live, and we have the means to track you down. So do not be so foolish as to harm me, or try to avoid this task. You will either do it and be wealthy, or you will refuse and be dead.

The slave smiled warmly, rose from his seat, and walked out of the ale-house. The four put their heads together. Getting into Drusus’ house would be easy, and they expected that getting close enough to kill him would not be too hard, either. He made himself so vulnerable! But getting away from the scene would be near impossible.

Gnaeus had the solution. Engage a stranger, let him strike the blow, and then the rest would come to Drusus’ rescue—but too late, of course. But first, they needed to check out the site. That evening they attended the Comitia, and followed Drusus home. They noted the layout of the atrium, and his courtesy in offering his hand as each man left through his door.

Most of the next day was spent discussing a killing strategy that would seem reasonable and plausible enough to convince their newest member that it would work and get them all out alive, but in fact would make sure that only those four were guaranteed safety while the fool was left holding the bloodied blade.

At length they came up with a plan. They would tell the fool that they would be the last to leave, to ensure as little opposition as possible. The first to farewell Drusus would leave slowly, silently taking his blade in hand. The second would take Drusus right hand, simultaneously stabbing him with the left. The last three would act as crowd-control, to ensure Drusus was killed and then covering the getaway. Everything depended upon co-ordination; whoever was in that second position would be the one who set the timing for all. His thrust of the knife would be the signal for the other four.

But the real plan was to make sure the fool was in second position; let him plunge the dagger in, perhaps even a couple of thrusts if he was quick and they could delay their reaction, pretending to be taken by surprise; then fall upon the fool and break his neck so he could not tell anyone the whole story.

That evening, they went to another ale-house in Subura, looking for a victim. They found Piso, looking every inch another petty criminal, but alone. Most importantly, he was a small man, of slender build; easy to overpower and kill bare-handed when they fell upon him.

Well, Marcus; that is indeed a cunning plan! You were unlucky it didn’t work! Sulla said approvingly. So if you would just relax, lay back on your bed a bit longer, I will check that your colleagues tell the same general story. Sulla slipped out of the room again, and into the second, containing a large red-headed man.

This was indeed Gnaeus, the nominal leader of the gang of four. His story was close to that told by Marcus; the differences were the minor, self-justifying tweaks that most people tell in such circumstances. Sulla was satisfied that he had his answers, but visited the other two in any case. He was not the man to leave anything to chance.

When he was satisfied, he went back through all the rooms, ordering the bonds to be loosened slightly, but only enough to allow the men to sleep. He had long-ago learnt that trivial kindnesses to an opponent earn gratitude, trust and respect; but large ones encouraged contempt. Then he went to rouse his fellow-senators.

Well, that is the story, and it seems too tight and consistent to be a fabrication. Sulla closed off his narrative of the events as he had re-constructed them. What we still don’t have is the name of the prime mover in all this.

Do you think that slave will be at the meeting tomorrow, to pay off the balance of the fee? That was Caius Marius. His military mind was already seeing a way to exploit limited information about the enemy.

Scaurus shrugged. I don’t see why not. Four gold minas is a pittance, and it will establish his bona fides if he ever needs another assassination carried out. But as soon as Marcus Livius appears, he will know he has failed. He will not stay around; and even if he does, how can we link him to the attempt? He will just deny it, and it will be the word of four habitual criminals against a noble and his household slave.

Then let us use the best weapon in any general’s arsenal, Caius Marius closed his fist. But his dramatic pause was interrupted.

Deception! Sulla finished.

Marius playfully swiped at Sulla’s red hair. Yes, that!

Scaurus stared at him, completely without a clue.

Here is how we play it; Marcus Livius stays home tomorrow, and his door does not open to anyone. We five go to the Comitia, my veterans surround the place as planned, and Gnaeus goes to find his paymaster. He tells him Drusus is dead, and everyone escaped in the confusion; there is no way they can be found. I expect that he will make the payment, as Marcus Aemelius says; but even if he does not, we will have people watching him from a distance, maybe even planted in the nearby crowd, listening, if we can manage it. Either way, his conduct will give us evidence. And then, we arrest him! My troops will give us the force to carry it off.

No, I can’t permit that. Drusus objected. It will cause an uproar, and prevent the vote. Getting this Law in place is more important than tracking down a failed assassin.

Marius looked at him for a period. I take your point. He conceded. What do you suggest?

I like your plan, up to the arrest. Why can we not simply identify him? Then I appear late, we conduct the vote, and we arrest him afterwards?

Because as soon as you show your face or are even rumoured to be on your way to the Comitia, the paymaster will be on a galloping horse, headed for Gaul!

Even better! Drusus exclaimed. That will also mean everyone with even a faint connection with plot will be on their way, too! A dozen enemies running for exile is much safer than one in a court and the others plotting in the shadows.

Scaurus came back into the conversation at this point. Marcus Livius is right; the objective here is not to defeat our enemies. It is to get the citizenship law enacted. If we do that, then our enemies will be defeated in any case. Self-imposed exile is as good as a court-imposed exile.

Sulla nodded. "Marcus Aemelius is right; this is politics, not war. But I still think we should make full use of deception. For example, our enemies will be watching this house, waiting for Marcus Livius to leave for the Comitia tomorrow. In fact, they might even have a back-up assassination planned.

So I suggest that at least one of us should go home soon, but with Marcus Livius dressed as a bodyguard. That will get him out of harm’s way, as well as allowing him to go to the Comitia tomorrow without any spies giving warning. Tomorrow, when Marcus Livius is due to leave for the Comitia, we can send an empty litter from this house, complete with curtains.

Why the litter, Lucius Cornelius? Drusus was curious. Do I want to be seen leaving the house, or not?

Twofold, Marcus Livius, Sulla explained. First, it will flush out any second attempt at assassination, but with you out of harm’s way. Second, it will strike them as unusual; when was the last time you used a litter?"

I don’t recall, Drusus agreed. Probably when I was a boy, and injured my foot.

That’s right. Sulla pounced. So anyone watching will read that as evidence that you are injured; they might even think that you are dead, and taking your body in a litter to the Comitia is a dramatic way of announcing your assassination.

Drusus nodded. I would hate to be a general opposing you, Lucius Cornelius; you would have me second-guessing my own bowel movements! Everyone laughed; the first time since the attack. Suddenly the air was lighter.

So how do I get to the Comitia, then? Drusus asked.

The same way you leave here tonight; as one of my bodyguard. Scaurus answered. But I might put a wig on you first, and stain the skin of your face. Too many people might recognise you otherwise.

There was a break in the discussion. So; are we agreed on how we go from here? Sulla was assuming control again. Everyone accepted that; he had the most tactically-aware mind among them, and even Caius Marius would concede that. "Very well; it seems Marcus Aemelius is taking Marcus Livius to his house for safety; the rest of us should stay here, so our bodyguards can get a good daylight look at Gnaeus in the morning. I will explain to Gnaeus how he is to act tomorrow, and what happens if his performance is not up to the required standard.

The rest of you; off to bed!" Sulla stood, and the others followed suit.

The next morning dawned bright, still and clear. Caius Marius and Sulla left the house first, with their bodyguards, to ensure Marius’ veterans were properly deployed around the Comitia to keep the peace. As Drusus’ fellow Tribunes of the Plebeians arrived, he took the courtesy of explaining these security arrangements, lest they fear that these men had been set by Caepio or Philippus to disrupt proceedings. Then he sent word back to the house, and to Scaurus’ house, that all was well.

Sulla and his personal slaves spread around the right rear corner of the Comitia well, to be able to cover the area; and Gnaeus was turned loose, to meet his paymaster. Caepio’s thugs appeared shortly afterwards, some hundred of them, and mingled in the growing crowd, in groups of three or four. Marius’ men broke off equal-numbered detachments to shadow them.

The auguries were done, and it was announced that the signs were propitious. The Comitia should go ahead. The most senior Tribune present announced that the meeting would start in half an hour.

Gnaeus was too smart to try to slip away; he had seen enough of Sulla to know he was not a man to be crossed. But having failed to locate his paymaster, he made a point of wandering until he ‘accidentally’ bumped into one of Sulla’s lookouts, and then made a show of apologising for his clumsiness. I’m so sorry, sir; I didn’t see! That should be enough to get the message across.

Then you should look! was the grudging reply. Gnaeus continued to wander in that back corner.

Many of the Senators arrived, complete with their bodyguard detachments. Scaurus was among them, and passed close to the platform, and then halted. Quickly they formed into a circle, and in less than a minute dispersed again. Out of their centre strode Drusus, who mounted the steps to the platform. A deafening shout of support greeted him.

But Drusus’ friends were not watching the platform; they were watching the crowd. There! In the back left corner! Both Philippus and