Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone

Chapter IV

82 BCE   -   Fall, Rome

Year of the consulship of 

Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

A word of advice:  if you can possibly avoid it, do not get shot. The arrow pierced my right thigh and exited out the back of my leg with force enough to spin me off-balance. My wounded leg flew backward, tripping up my other leg as I twisted from the impact. I was screaming before my fall broke the feathered shaft as I hit the ground face down. Unable to stop my momentum, I rolled over until the protruding iron arrowhead stabbed the back of my other thigh. I’m told the complaints streaming from my mouth were insufferable; Sulla ordered a legionary to rush up and knock me on the head with the butt of his sword.

***

Now that I have told you how my new master ruined my first and only attempt at escape from bondage, I return to the events that happened only moments before. They concern the condemned man whose blood Crassus refused to allow to be washed from the balcony’s stones for as long as he lived in that place. So let us go back to the moment he was dragged before Sulla and Crassus.

***

There was a commotion at the front of the house:  the slap and murmur of leather armor, the clamor of studded caligae, the stumble of an out-of-step gait shoved from behind. “Your next gift approaches,” Sulla said to Crassus. As this procession marched out onto the balcony, the sound of a sword being drawn was accompanied by these words from the general:  “Lucius Junius Brutus Damasippus, I accuse you of the murder of Quintus Mucius Scaevola, pontifex maximus. In the blinking brightness of day. In front of scores of witnesses. In of all places the most sacred Temple of the Vestals. A crime so bold and heinous it is a reeling affront to everything for which Rome stands. Do you deny it?”

There came a coarse cough of laughter, then a new voice spoke with venom made potent by the hopelessness of his plight. “I deny nothing. I cut the priest’s throat with my own puglio and watched his blood run down the steps of the temple.”

“And do you deny that Gaius Marius Minor, the last holdout of those who have raised arms against me, he who is now held under siege at Praeneste, holds your leash?” 

“This is too pretty a place for an execution, Lucius Cornelius, and far too private for your purpose. What are you playing at? I appreciate the view, but if you expect repentance, I shit on your ignorance. Do what you brought me here to do.” 

“The dead make no demands:  I give no credence to the words of a ghost. For history’s sake, I will make an accurate accounting. Marius gave you a list.”

“We have it here my lord,” a soldier said. There was quiet as Sulla scanned it.

“And did you ...?”

“To the last senator,” spoke Damasippus. “You’ll find them at the bottom of the Tiber. Togas make excellent shrouds. By the way, you’ll find the high priest Scaevola down there as well. You see, we did try to clean up after ourselves,” the villain added.

“You were loyal, Brutus; you served faithfully, first the father, then the son. This I do not hold against you, for it is this quality I seek above all others in my own allies. You may have truly believed, as did Marius, that the people require more representation than what they already have from the senators whom they have elected. Or maybe you simply gambled that your sword would be wielded on the side of the victor. Either way, you have chosen unwisely. Yet even this I might be inclined to overlook, but for the cruel and vicious streak in you. I take no pleasure in restoring sanity to Rome. I do what must be done. But you, you are ... overzealous. I cannot abide intemperance in any form.”

“Then chide your tongue,” Damasippus snapped. “This endless prattle offends my person more than any blade.” There was a blunt whump and the prisoner became silent. My neck ached. I rolled my head to relieve the strain of looking up, as if that would improve my hearing. 

Sulla spoke again. “Marcus, come close. Do you know this man?” 

“There is something familiar about his face.”  A pause. “YOU!”

“Hold, Marcus.” A short scuffle. “He will be yours in good time. Before I could breach the walls of the city, this traitor had already discharged his bloody commission from Marius the son, but five years earlier, the faithful cur performed the same bloody tricks for Marius the father. I wish these good souls assembled here to know the full measure of his perfidy. Remember, Marcus Licinius; purge yourself of the memory.”

There was silence for a long while, then Crassus spoke hoarsely, but I could not make out the words. Sulla’s stentorian growl, though, fell hard on my ears. “This is the man, Marcus! More than this house, more than any treasure I have yet to bestow upon you, I warrant you will value him as my greatest gift to you. Most of him, that is. I shall retain his head for another purpose.”

Crassus found his voice, each word of the retelling slowly stoking his anger as the memory took shape and form till it was once again a live and twisting thing in his gut. “You were bearded then.” The sound of measured steps fading then returning:  Crassus circling Damasippus. “Bless the gods for their kindness – they took my mother the day I was born; she would be neither witness nor victim of that day’s work. My eldest brother, Publius - he too was fortunate. He died honorably, killed in the last war against our rebellious Italian allies. 

“But on the day of which you would have me speak, general, the day my family’s honor and life was gutted like a gasping trout, I was the lucky one.” The word came miserable and shriveled from Crassus’ throat. “My brother Lucius had just returned ... .” A breeze blew through the needles of the stone pines lining the garden border and carried his next words away on the chill wind. I pleaded with their great, rounded crowns, swaying like giant mushrooms on spindly stalks, begging them to be still. To my amazement, they heard my prayer and ceased their lofty chatter.

“They never found me,” Crassus was saying. “But through the cracks of the garden shed I saw what happened. Pallus, the gardener and two of his Egyptians had gone there with me to fetch fertilizer and tools. If not for them ....” 

“How ironic that my father once supported Marius. He was always a man of the people. But his taste for politics soured once the killing began. He became devoutly apolitical and withdrew from public life altogether. Which is why he looked mildly surprised when a squad of soldiers marched up to his home, led by this man. I never learned his name, but his deeds made the memory of his face indelible. Damasippus, you say. I have it now. You never gave it when my father demanded it of you. Why should it matter to me now? But it does, you see, because there is a perverse balance in the knowing. In my heart, the names of my kin are forever linked to their kind and gentle ways. Until now I had no name to connect the profane acts of that day. Marius may have given the order. But never has such a heinous command ever been executed with such joyous devotion. By you. Damasippus. 

“You gave my father a choice. You must have known of him:  consul, censor, governor of Hispania Ulterior, a patrician proclaimed imperatore by his troops and granted a triumph for his victory over the Lusitani, yet you gave him a choice. Fall on your sword, you said, and spare the life of your son. My father was no fool. He knew the sun above his head would be the last to shine upon him. He did not beg or ask why or hesitate for one second. He said, Spare the lives of the rest of my household, my children and their children. Lucius cried out and struggled against the two that held him. ‘Be brave, my son,’ my father said as the rest of the soldiers pushed roughly past him to search the house. ‘Take anything you like ....’” Crassus’ breath caught, it became clear he was crying. ‘Take it all, Father said, ‘but spare all who live under my roof. ‘Swear this. Swear on the honed tips of Diana’s unerring arrows and upon the blessed curls that grace your mother’s head. And you swore. You swore.

“My father called for Plocamus, our steward, to assist him, and he shuffled bravely out from amongst the servants. But he was old and frail. You pushed him aside and ....” Crassus faltered. “You told him he could not lift a sword, let alone brace it.”

“I know damn well what I ...”

“SILENCE!” Sulla bellowed. “Go on, Marcus.”

“I cannot. Rage and sorrow both have stopped my mouth. Oh gods! Will you not let me avenge them now?!”

“Draw your sword,” said Sulla, “for its thirst shall be slaked. I have heard the tale, my friend, and would be your voice, for the story eats at me and must out. This traitorous whoreson took his own sword and knelt before your father, bracing the butt against his boot as is the custom. Publius Licinius addressed the house, but his gaze was fixed on Lucius, his eldest remaining son. ‘Mourn not,’ he said, ‘for I happily sell all my remaining days to make this purchase. When Marcus returns, express my sorrow at not being able to say goodbye.’ He looked down at his murderer and added, ‘Be not forsworn,’ and then he fell upon the blade.”

“I could not go to him!” Crassus cried with a voice aged with five years of guilt and anger. “Three men held me fast, their strength doubled to save their own lives as well as mine. Pallus whispered ‘forgive me’ in my ear as he clasped a hand over my mouth.”

“A foul business,” Sulla said. “And here is the worst of it. Before the sword could inflict a lethal blow, Damasippus thrust a hand up to your father’s shoulder, arresting his descent. He nodded to the men holding your brother and smiled as they slit his throat. Seeking your father’s eyes once more, he grinned as he said, “Marius bids me say thusly:  you and your family shall become as dust, your coins melted, your works dismantled, and your household utterly destroyed.” He cast his stiffened arm aside, your father fell, and Damasippus laughed as the light went from his eyes. You and your three brave servants were the only ones to escape.”

The sound of weeping came from above, and more cries than the sobs of Crassus swept down to me on the wind. There soon followed silence. I strained to listen, my breath a caged captive in my chest. 

Sulla said, “Marcus will kill you now, Lucius Junius. You will receive no rights of burial. Your body will be cast into the Tiber. Your possessions and property will be proscribed and your family and all that called you friend will be hunted down and put to the sword. When you are slain, I will take your severed head and send a message with it, more convincing than any inked on parchment. I shall catapult it over the walls of Praeneste so that the son of Marius will know his battle for Rome is over. For him, like you, all is lost.”

There came a thud as the condemned must have been forced to his knees. Sulla said in a solemn voice, “He is yours, Marcus.” 

I had seen these executions before and cringed at the thought of what was going on above me. Crassus must have stood behind his victim, placed his sword point at the base of the neck and with both hands thrust straight down. I heard nothing, but the deed must have been done.

Because then they took the head.