The Grass Crown Read Free Page B

alternative than to see the business out to its last and bitterest flicker. One day—some day—he and Caecilia Metella Dalmatica would finish what he at this moment did not dare to start.
    Then Marcus Aemilius Scaurus came knocking on his door, that same door which had felt the hands of many ghosts, and oozed a drop of malice from out of its woody cells. The act of touching it contaminated Scaurus, who thought only that this interview was going to be even harder than he had envisioned.
    Seated in Sulla’s client’s chair, the doughty old man eyed his host’s fair countenance sourly through clear green orbs which gave the lie to the lines upon his face, the hairlessness of his skull. And wished, wished, wished that he could have stayed away, that he didn’t have to beggar his pride to deal with this hideously farcical situation.
    “I imagine you know why I’m here, Lucius Cornelius,” said Scaurus, chin up, eyes direct.
    “I believe I do,” said Sulla, and said no more.
    “I have come to apologize for the conduct of my wife, and to assure you that, having spoken to you, I will proceed to make it impossible for my wife to embarrass you further.” There! It was out. And he was still alive, hadn’t died of shame. But at the back of Sulla’s calm dispassionate gaze he fancied he discerned a faint contempt; imaginary, perhaps, but it was that which turned Scaurus into Sulla’s enemy.
    “I’m very sorry, Marcus Aemilius.” Say something, Sulla! Make it easier for the old fool! Don’t leave him sitting there with his pride in tatters! Remember what Aurelia said! But the words refused to come out. They milled inchoate within his mind and left his tongue a thing of stone, silent.
    “It will be better for everyone concerned if you leave Rome. Take yourself off to Spain,” Scaurus said finally. “I hear that Lucius Cornelius Dolabella can do with competent help.”
    Sulla blinked with exaggerated surprise. “Can he? I hadn’t realized things were so serious! However, Marcus Aemilius, it isn’t possible for me to uproot myself and go to Further Spain. I’ve been in the Senate now for nine years, it’s time I sought election as a praetor.”
    Scaurus swallowed, but strove to continue seeming pleasant. “Not this year, Lucius Cornelius,” he said gently. “Next year, or the year after. This year you must leave Rome.”
    “Marcus Aemilius, I have done nothing wrong!” Yes, you have, Sulla! What you are doing at this very moment is wrong, you’re treading all over him! “I am three years past the age for a praetor, my time grows short. I shall stand this year, which means I must stay in Rome.”
    “Reconsider, please,” said Scaurus, rising to his feet.
    “I cannot, Marcus Aemilius.”
    “If you stand, Lucius Cornelius, I assure you, you won’t get in. Nor will you get in next year, or the year after that, or the year after that,” said Scaurus evenly. “So much I promise you. Believe my promise! Leave Rome.”
    “I repeat, Marcus Aemilius, I am very sorry. But remain in Rome to stand for praetor, I must,” said Sulla.
    And so it had all fallen out. Injured in both auctoritas and dignitas though he may have been, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus Princeps Senatus was still able to marshal more than enough influence to ensure that Sulla was not elected a praetor. Other, lesser men saw their names entered on the fasti; nonentities, mediocrities, fools. But praetors nonetheless.
    •        •        •
    It was from his niece Aurelia that Publius Rutilius Rufus learned the true story, and he in turn had passed the true story on to Gaius Marius. That Scaurus Princeps Senatus had set his face against Sulla’s becoming a praetor was obvious to everyone; the reason why was less obvious. Some maintained it was because of Dalmatica’s pathetic crush on Sulla, but after much discussion, it was generally felt this was too slight an explanation. Having given her ample time to see the error of her ways