I Am Rome, page 38
The young man’s mouth fell open. He was still lying on the triclinium beside his wife, and he looked at her and then to his father-in-law.
“Consider yourself officially divorced,” Sulla said.
Acilius, looking shocked, slowly stood.
“She’s pregnant,” he announced. “We were going to tell you tonight.”
Sulla held his empty cup out and a slave rushed over to refill it. He took another long drink, set his cup on the table, and fixed his eyes on Acilius.
“Well, boy, you’ve told me,” he said. “Now leave. And consider yourself fortunate that you are the father of my stepdaughter Emilia’s future child; it is the only thing saving your life. Now go, by Jupiter, out of my home, for good!”
Acilius Glabrio, without so much as saying goodbye to his wife, exited the atrium, dumbstruck by his unexpected fall from grace.
The tension subsided after Acilius left; the guests returned to their food and wine and the musicians broke into lively song in an attempt to lighten the mood of the long comissatio around the banquet table. Everyone relaxed. Only Emilia stared sullenly at the floor. She loved Acilius. Her now ex-husband’s criticism of Sulla had been reasonable but poorly timed. She was now pregnant, divorced, without a father for her child. And terrified. She sat in silence.
“Do you think you were a bit, let’s say…harsh with Acilius?” Dolabella dared to ask. “After all, he is…well, was, family.”
“No, my friend. I was not too harsh at all. It’s only practical, from a political point of view,” Sulla argued. “If I am this tough on dissent within my own family, everyone outside my family will think twice before disagreeing with me, especially in public.”
“Without a doubt,” Dolabella admitted as he nodded for a slave to serve him more wine. “So, does that tie up all the loose ends?”
Once more, Sulla did not respond out loud—he now had a stepdaughter to marry off. He still had to formalize the divorce, of course, but that could be taken care of the very next day. What mattered was that Emilia was…available. A perfect opportunity to seal a new, more useful political alliance. Sulla had very loyal followers, such as Dolabella, but there were other Roman eagles flying too high. It would be better to tie a few of them down. A marriage could do the trick.
Dolabella watched as the dictator slowly turned his head and stopped when he came to one of his guests of honor, Pompey, lying on a nearby triclinium.
He mentally reviewed the events and actions he’d already given so much thought to. Pompey was a young senator in stunning ascent. Punishing on the battlefield, he had earned the nickname adulescentulus carcifex, the “adolescent butcher,” for his brutal and ruthless performance in the war against the socii. The young patrician had limitless ambition, and Sulla wanted to keep him on his side to ensure that he could enjoy his final years in peace. Organizing Rome around a dominant order of optimate senators required strong, implacable leaders whose pulse did not quicken when called upon to punish, execute, or even charge into battle if necessary. In the recent civil disputes, Pompey had been wise enough to position himself squarely on Sulla’s side, skillfully and efficiently commanding three legions against the populares’ troops. But unlike the majority of those in attendance and the optimates in general, Pompey did not come from a noble lineage: his father had been a homo novus, the first of his bloodline to become a senator. Joining Sulla’s family would constitute a huge boost for Pompey’s career and ensure a very promising cursus honorum as he rose among the ranks of the conservative senators.
Pompey, feeling Sulla’s eyes on him, held his gaze, not arrogant, only attentive. It was as if he could read his mind. And, he had to admit, Sulla’s thoughts aligned with many of his own objectives. But, always cautious in the presence of the commanding dictator, he waited to hear Sulla’s proposal.
“You, Gnaeus Pompey, will wed my daughter Emilia.”
Sulla did not wait for acceptance. He looked away from the man he had chosen as his future son-in-law and turned to the slaves to loudly order more wine and food to celebrate the wedding that was soon to take place. He said nothing about the fact that Pompey was already married.
Emilia sighed. She felt nothing for the man her stepfather had chosen, but being wed to one of his closest allies would at least provide her some security. The child she carried inside her would be protected and that put her mind at ease.
Pompey took a sip of wine. He had not accepted Sulla’s proposal, but it was clear that the dictator would not allow him to reject it. He was already married, to Antistia. It had not been a love match, at least not at first. Pompey had been accused of corruption and misappropriation of funds in the distribution of the spoils from the sacking of Asculum. He could’ve found himself in dire straits since, in fact, the allocation had not followed all the formalities of Roman law and custom. He therefore chose the easier route and, before the trial began, courted and married Antistia, daughter of the president of the tribunal set to try him.
Pompey took a drink of wine as he thought of that well-planned marriage and how it had ensured he was absolved of all charges. Later, it was true: to his surprise, he had begun to care for the girl, who had always been a good wife. He didn’t want to set her aside. And, of course, it was not fair to do so. On the other hand, opposing Sulla could be the beginning of the end for him.
Gnaeus Pompey raised his cup and his voice: “To the happy union between me and Emilia, daughter of Lucius Cornelius Sulla, dictator and savior of Rome!”
“I’ll drink to that!” Sulla answered, raising his cup.
The guests imitated his gesture, lifting their cups high.
Everyone seemed joyful.
Antistia was not present.
Pompey looked down. He would not return home that night. He would stay at a friend’s domus and communicate his written request for divorce to Antistia in the morning. Women were so emotional in certain matters, and Pompey did not feel like having to endlessly explain himself. Antistia would have to leave the house, and he would return to the domus in a few weeks, perhaps with his new wife Emilia already in tow.
“That’s it then?” Dolabella asked Sulla quietly. “Have you now tied up all the loose ends?”
Sulla shook his head.
“No,” he said, “there’s one more, but he’s not here.”
“Who?” Dolabella inquired.
“Caesar.”
Dolabella furrowed his brow, truly surprised. “Caesar? Gaius Julius Caesar? That boy? He’s nobody. He has yet to make a name for himself in any military campaign, he’s never participated in a single trial…We don’t even know if he can speak. Are you truly worried about him? How old is he, nineteen?”
“Eighteen,” said Sulla, who had carefully studied the young man in question. “And he’s flamen Dialis,” he added.
“Who cares about a flamen Dialis?” Dolabella asked, worried that Sulla was becoming paranoid in his old age. “He’s just a priest; he has no political power at all.”
“It’s a prestigious position as far as the people are concerned, as far as everyone is concerned,” Sulla argued.
“Well, he was appointed by Marius and Cinna. If that’s your concern, you could remove him from the post. You have all the power now. Limitless. You’d simply have to give the order and he’d no longer be high priest of Jupiter.”
“That’s not good enough,” Sulla said, very serious.
The other guests were talking among themselves, not paying attention to the conversation between Sulla and Dolabella. Dolabella listened carefully to his mentor. He was trying to determine whether he was still the brilliant man he had learned so much from or if he was in fact losing his good sense. If that was the case, it might now be his moment…but Sulla continued.
“No, stripping him of his post is not enough. In fact, I’d prefer to bring him into the fold, to our side. Like we’ve just done with Pompey. I will order Caesar to divorce Cinna’s daughter and marry some young patrician girl from an optimate family closer to our…way of seeing things.”
Dolabella tilted his head and sighed before making a final judgment on Sulla’s words: “I think you’re overreacting.”
“No I’m not,” the dictator insisted. “Caesar is Gaius Marius’s nephew. No one yet knows what he’s capable of. I want him with us. Not against us.”
Dolabella nodded a few times. Marius was still a legend in Rome. And it was true, after the death of Marius’s son, Gaius Julius Caesar was his only relevant family member left alive. Sulla didn’t seem to be losing his good sense. He simply wanted to remain cautious and anticipate future dangers. His cleverness and intuition had helped him seize control of Rome, after all.
“Maybe you’re right,” Dolabella admitted. He took a drink of wine as a doubt crept into his mind: “But what if Marius’s young nephew, this Gaius Julius Caesar, refuses to divorce his wife?”
Sulla said only one word as he turned his palms up: “Then…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Dolabella did not require further clarification.
Skip Notes
*1 As quoted by Appian of Alexandria, Roman History, The Civil Wars, Book I, Chapter X, paragraph 94.
*2 Members of the equestrian class, also known as equites, ranked just below the senatorial class in wealth.
LVI
Caesar’s Divorce
Julia family domus
82 B.C.
A few days after Sulla’s feast
“Agree to it,” Cornelia said. She was sitting in a corner curled up like a frightened animal but spoke in a surprisingly calm tone for a distressed fifteen-year-old girl. “Agree to it,” she repeated, then buried her face in her hands to muffle a sob.
Her words said she was releasing Caesar, but her gestures, her body, her tears, begged him not to leave her.
With his father, his uncle Marius, and his father-in-law Cinna all dead, the eighteen-year-old Caesar had no trusted older man to advise him. Gathered in the Julia domus were Cornelia, his best friend Labienus, his uncle Aurelius Cotta, and his mother. There was much debate over what Caesar should do.
Sulla had sent a soldier to convey an order: Caesar was to present himself at the domus of Rome’s dictator. The messenger had been asked to wait for the boy, who was expected to comply immediately. There was no mystery as to the meeting’s subject, since the message had been quite clear. “Lucius Cornelius Sulla requires the presence of the young Gaius Julius Caesar to discuss his divorce from Cornelia, daughter of the criminal Cinna, and his new marital bond to a patrician girl more appropriate to his personal relevance,” the messenger had said. He stood waiting, still as a statue in the center of the atrium, as Caesar wished more than ever for a proper pater familias strong enough to reject the pressures of this unjust dictator. Or experienced enough, at least, to know how to act as prudently as possible.
Young Caesar stood beside Cornelia and rested his hand on her shoulder.
“Answer his summons and agree to the divorce,” she said. “I don’t want them to hurt you,” she added, now with more conviction.
Aurelia looked at her son: even the great Scipio Africanus, who had to take charge of his family at a young age, had been twenty-five when he’d been burdened with the responsibility of pater familias. Caesar was only eighteen and up against the all-powerful Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Without his father, his father-in-law, or his uncle Marius, what could he do but blindly obey the dictator? Which was what her brother Aurelius Cotta had advised him.
“The boy must do as Sulla demands. He has no choice.”
Aurelia knew it was the logical course of action. And yet she could see the blazing fury behind her son’s icy gaze, and she knew that his indomitable, rebellious spirit would likely drive him into a confrontation with Sulla. One he could not win. She had raised her son to always stand firm in his convictions…But she’d never expected him to be tested so severely at such a young age. Or against such a formidable foe.
“What do you think I should do, Mother?” Caesar asked.
Aurelia nodded, but did not answer. She circled the atrium lost in thought: if she had poisoned Cornelia when she’d had the chance, everything would be so much simpler now. But the girl had been pregnant and she was now the mother of Caesar’s daughter. Also, Cornelia had always been steadfast in her loyalty. Eliminating her was no longer an option. For better or worse—much worse, as was now the case—Cornelia was a part of the Julia family. Everything had to be handled differently.
She turned to the centurion messenger still waiting in the atrium: “My son will answer Sulla’s summons, but he needs to prepare himself for such an audience,” she said in a submissive tone, but with the authority of a seasoned domina. “We would like some privacy. I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to wait in the street for a few minutes, would it?”
The soldier considered the request. He had received clear instructions and would not let himself be manipulated. He hesitated.
“You have a weapon, centurion, and it is in plain sight,” continued Caesar’s mother. “In plain sight of the flamen Dialis. That is sacrilege. Do you not fear the gods?”
The officer remained silent, but he covered his gladius with his cape so that it was no longer visible.
“I can stand outside for a moment,” he said. “But an entire century of soldiers waits in the street and there is no door that will block us if Sulla’s summons is not answered immediately.”
“He’ll answer,” Cornelia said. “Now please…” she gestured toward the door.
The officer saluted them with a fist to his chest, turned around, and left. The slaves closed the door behind him and secured it with a thick crossbar that, nonetheless, as the centurion had warned, would be utterly insufficient against eighty armed men should they wish to enter.
“We only have a few minutes,” Aurelia said, looking in turn at everyone present. “We have to make the most of them.”
She had their full attention. Cornelia seemed to snap out of her state of despair as a gleam of hope crept into her wide eyes.
“Gaius,” Aurelia began, moving closer to her son, “you must appear before Sulla. I will look after Cornelia, don’t worry. But you can’t go to Sulla’s house alone.” She turned then to Labienus. “This is the moment that will test your friendship. Will you accompany my son to his audience with Sulla? It will be dangerous. Perhaps even deadly.”
“I will do it,” he said without hesitation. If his dearest friend Caesar was brave enough to stand up to Sulla, he would stand alongside him, even if it cost him his life. Better to die standing than kneeling before this vile and greedy dictator.
“Good.” Aurelia turned to her brother. “You have given your opinion and it is logical: Gaius should agree to divorce Cornelia and marry whomever Sulla chooses for him. But Caesar”—she turned to her son—“will do whatever he thinks best, what his head and his heart tell him to do. I would venture to guess that he’s going to say no, for two reasons: because I raised him to never bow down to anyone, and because…because the boy is in love with Cornelia. She has proven herself forever loyal and it is only proper and fair that he repay her loyalty with his own.”
She moved over to her daughter-in-law. “Don’t worry, little one: Sulla has not yet started killing women and children. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because it would make him too unpopular. He may confiscate our lands, money, and possessions. He may make our lives miserable. But we have many friends in Rome. We will survive, don’t worry.” She turned back to Caesar. “You will have to leave the city. You’ll take the money, everything we have in the house.”
“Mother, no. You’ll need the gold and sesterce,” Caesar began, but Aurelia interjected.
“No, my son, you’re going to need it much more than we will. I’m sure of that. As soon as you disobey Sulla’s orders, if that’s what you decide to do, those soldiers waiting outside will return to strip the house of everything valuable. It would be better for you to take it. I know you’ll put it to good use.” She paused and sighed. “May the gods protect you, my son. Never forget that you descend from Aeneas. Be brave but not rash. Be just, but not foolish. Remember your uncle Marius’s advice. It doesn’t matter if they call you a coward. All that matters is that you win in the end. Now there is nothing more to say. They’re waiting for you. And they’re getting impatient. Go lightly.”
Gaius Julius Caesar nodded his head.
“Not everything has been said, Mother. There’s one more thing.” He knelt beside Cornelia as she sat crumpled on the floor crying. “I have to say goodbye to you, Cornelia. Listen to me. What my mother says is true: I love you, with all my heart, and I will always love you. Whatever happens, whatever you hear, remember that.” He stood up and walked quickly to his mother’s cubiculum, where he collected several sacks of gold and silver coins that they kept in the house, regretting that the rest of it was at their villa outside the city which would soon be confiscated by Sulla.
“I’m going with you,” Labienus said when Caesar returned to the atrium.
Caesar smiled. A loyal friend was worth more than gold. But money was useful. Always. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Like when we were boys and we got into that fight,” he laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
“Let’s go, then,” Caesar said.
They walked to the door. Then Caesar stopped.
“My apex,” he said.
Cornelia stood and rushed into their bedroom to grab the hat worn only by the high priest of Jupiter. She returned to the vestibule and placed the apex on his head. It would remind everyone that Caesar was no ordinary citizen. He was flamen Dialis, the most sacred priest in Rome.
