Cornelius Sulla sat idly on a throne of gold, resting on a mosaic of a million black and white tiles. Near the centre of Rome, his estate had been untouched by the rioting and it was a pleasure to be back and in power once more.
Marius' legion had fought almost to the last man, as he had predicted they would. Only a few had tried to run at the end and Sulla had hunted them down without mercy. Vast fire trenches lined the outer walls of the city and he had been told that the thousands of bodies would burn for days or even weeks before the ashes were finally cold. The gods would notice such a sacrifice to save their chosen city, he was sure.
Rome would need to be cleaned when the fires were out. There wasn't a wall anywhere that had not been speckled with the oily ash that floated in and stung the eyes of the people.
He had denounced the Primigenia as traitors, with their lands and wealth forfeit to the Senate. Families had been dragged out onto the streets by neighbours jealous of their possessions. Hundreds more had been executed and still the work went on. It would be a bitter mark on the glorious history of the seven hills, but what choice had he had?
Sulla mused to himself as a slave girl approached with a cup of ice-cold fruit juice. It was too early in the day for wine and there were so many still to see and to condemn. Rome would rise again in glory, he knew, but for that to happen the last of the friends and supporters of Marius – the last of Sulla's enemies – had to be ripped from the good, healthy flesh.
He winced as he sipped from the gold cup and ran a finger over his swollen eye and the ridges of a purpling gash along his right cheek. It had been the hardest fight of his life, making the campaign against Mithridates look rather pallid in comparison.
Marius' death came into his mind again, as it had so frequently in recent days. Impressive. The body had been saved from the fires. Sulla considered having a statue of the man standing at the top of one of the hills. It would show his own greatness in being able to honour the dead. Or he could just have it thrown into the pits with the others. It wasn't important.
The room where he sat was almost empty. A domed roof showed a pattern of Aphrodite in the Greek style. She looked down on him with love, a beautiful naked woman, with her hair wrapped around her. He wanted those who met him to know he was loved by the gods. The slave girl and her pitcher stood paces from him, ready to refill his cup at a gesture. The only other presence in the room was his torturer, who stood nearby with a small brazier and the grisly tools of his trade laid out on a table in front of him. His leather apron was already spattered from the morning's work and still there was more to do.
Bronze doors, almost as large as those that opened onto the Senate, boomed as they were struck with a mailed gauntlet. They opened to reveal two of his legionaries dragging in a burly soldier with his wrists and feet tied. They pulled him across the shining mosaic towards Sulla and he could see the man's face was already battered, his nose broken. A scribe walked behind the soldiers and consulted a sheaf of parchment for details.
‘This one is Orso Ferito, master,’ the scribe intoned. ‘He was found under a pile of Marius’ men and has been identified by two witnesses. He led some of the traitors in the resistance.'
Sulla stood lithely and walked to the figure, signalling for the guards to let him fall. He was conscious, but a dirty cloth gag prevented anything more than animal grunts from him.
‘Cut the gag away. I would question him,’ Sulla ordered and the deed was done quickly and brutally, a blade bringing fresh blood and a groan from the prostrate man.
‘You led one of the attacks, didn't you? Are you that one? My men were saying you had taken over after Marius. Are you that man?’
Orso Ferito looked up with a sparkle of hatred. His gaze played over the bruise and cut on Sulla's face and he smiled, revealing teeth broken and bloody. The voice seemed dragged from some deep well and it croaked out at him.
‘I would do it again,’ he said.
‘Yes. So would I,’ Sulla replied. ‘Put out his eyes and then hang him.’ He nodded to the torturer, who removed a sliver of hot iron from the brazier, holding the darker end in heavy clamps. Orso struggled as his arms were bound with leather straps, his muscles writhing. The torturer was impassive as he brought the metal close enough to singe the lashes, then pressed it in, rewarded with a soft, grunting, animal sound.
Sulla drained his cup without tasting the juice. He looked on without pleasure, congratulating himself for his lack of emotion. He was not a monster, he knew, but the people expected a strong leader and that is what they would get. As soon as the Senate could reconvene, he would declare himself dictator and assume the power of the old kings. Then Rome would see a new era.
The unconscious Ferito was dragged away to be executed and Sulla had only a few minutes alone before the door boomed again and fresh soldiers entered with the little scribe. This time, he knew the young man who stumbled between them.
‘Julius Caesar,’ he said. ‘Captured at the very height of the excitement, I believe. Let him stand, gentlemen; this is not a common man. Remove his gag – gently.’
He looked at the young lad and was pleased to note how he straightened. His face bore some bruising, but Sulla knew his men would have been wary of risking their general's displeasure with too much damage before judgement. He stood tall, a fraction under six feet, and his body was well-muscled and sun-dark. Blue eyes looked coldly out from his face and Sulla could feel the force of the man coming at him, seeming to fill the room till it was just the two of them, soldiers, torturer, scribe and slave all forgotten.
Sulla tilted his head back slightly and his mouth stretched and opened into a pleased expression.
‘Metella died, I am sorry to say. She took her own life before my men could break in and save her. I would have let her go, but you … you are a different problem. Did you know the old man captured with you escaped? He seems to have slipped his bonds and freed the other. Most unusual companions for a young gentleman.’ He saw the spark of interest in the other's face.
‘Oh, yes. I have men out looking for the pair, but no luck at present. If my men had tied you with them, I dare say you would be free by now. Fate can be a fickle mistress – your membership of the nobilitas leaves you here while those gutter scum run free.’
Julius said nothing. He did not expect to live an hour longer and suddenly saw that nothing he could say would have meaning or use. Raging at Sulla would only amuse him and pleading would arouse his cruelty. He remained silent and glared.
‘What do we have on him, scribe?’ Sulla spoke to the man with the parchment.
‘Nephew of Marius, son of Julius. Both dead. Mother Aurelia, still alive, but deranged. Owns a small estate a few miles outside the city. Considerable debts to private houses, sums undisclosed. Husband of Cornelia, Cinna's daughter, married on the morning of the battle.’
‘Ah,’ Sulla said, interrupting. 'The heart of the matter. Cinna is no friend of mine, though he is too wily to have supported Marius openly. He is wealthy; I understand why you would want the support of the old man, but surely your life is worth more.
‘I will offer you a simple choice. Put this Cornelia aside and swear loyalty to me and I will let you live. If not, my torturer here is heating his tools once again. Marius would want you to live, young man. Make the right choice.’
Julius glared his anger. What he knew of Sulla didn't help him. It could be a cruel trick to make him deny those he loved before executing him anyway.
As if sensing his thoughts, Sulla spoke again.
‘Divorce Cornelia and you will live. Such a simple act will shame Cinna, weakening him. You will go free. These men are all witnesses to my word as ruler of Rome. What is your answer?’
Julius held himself perfectly still. He hated this man. He had killed Marius and crippled the Republic