The Grass Crown by Colleen McCullough

himself he was moving upward. But in Rome—and he had been in Rome now for almost three years—he came eventually to a degree of thwarted boredom which in the past had only dissipated after literal or metaphorical murder.
    He fell, ice-cold, into a reverie; faces came and went, of victims and of those he wished were victims. Julilla. Aelia. Dalmatica. Lucius Gavius Stichus. Clitumna. Nicopolis. Catulus Caesar—how nice to wipe that haughty camel’s look away forever! Scaurus. Metellus Numidicus Piggle-wiggle. Piggle-wiggle… Slowly Sulla got up, slowly closed the secret drawer. But kept the little bottle in his hand.
    The water clock said it was the middle of the day. Six hours gone, six hours to go. Drip drip, drip drip. Time enough and more to visit Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus Piggle-wiggle.
     
    Upon his return from exile, Metellus Numidicus had found himself turned into something of a legend. Not nearly old enough to be dead, he told himself exultantly, yet here he was, already become a part of Forum lore. They recounted the story of his Homeric career as censor, the fearless way he had dealt with Lucius Equitius, the beatings he had taken, the courage he displayed in coming back for more; and they gave the story of how he had gone into exile, with his stammering son cuh-cuh-cuh-counting that endless stream of denarii while the sun went down on the Curia Hostilia and Gaius Marius waited to enforce his oath of allegiance to Saturninus’s second land bill.
    Yes, thought Metellus Numidicus after the last client of the day had been dismissed, I will pass into history as the greatest of a great family, the quintessential Quintus of the Caecilii Metelli. And he swelled with pride in himself, happy with being home again, pleased with his welcome, replete with an enormous satisfaction. Yes, it had been a long war against Gaius Marius! But now it was definitely over. And he had won, Gaius Marius had lost. Never again would Rome suffer the indignity of Gaius Marius.
    His steward scratched upon the door to his study.
    “Yes?” asked Metellus Numidicus.
    “Lucius Cornelius Sulla is asking to see you, domine.”
    When Sulla came through the door Metellus Numidicus was already on his feet and halfway across the room, his hand stretched out in welcome.
    “My dear Lucius Cornelius, what a pleasure to see you,” he said, oozing affability.
    “Yes, it’s more than time I came to pay my personal respects in private,” said Sulla, seating himself in the client’s chair and assuming an expression of rather charming self-deprecation.
    “Some wine?”
    “Thank you.”
    Standing by the console table upon which two flagons and some goblets of very nice Alexandrian glass reposed, Metellus Numidicus turned back toward Sulla, one eyebrow lifted, a slightly quizzical look on his face. “Is this an occasion to merit Chian unadulterated by water?” he asked.
    Sulla put on a smile suggesting that he was beginning to feel more at ease. “To water Chian down is a crime,” he said.
    His host didn’t move. “that’s a politician’s answer, Lucius Cornelius. I didn’t think you belonged to the breed.”
    “Quintus Caecilius, leave the water out of your wine!” cried Sulla. “I come in the hope that we can be good friends,” he said, voice sincere.
    “In that case, Lucius Cornelius, we will drink our Chian without water.”
    Back came Metellus Numidicus bearing two of the goblets; he placed one on Sulla’s side of the desk, one on his own, then sat down, picked up his glass. “I drink to friendship,” he said.
    “And I.” Sulla sipped a little of his wine, frowned, and looked very directly at Metellus Numidicus. “Quintus Caecilius, I am going as senior legate with Titus Didius to Nearer Spain. I have no idea how long I’m likely to be away, but at this moment it looks as if it could be several years. When I come back, I intend to stand as soon as possible for election as praetor.” He cleared his throat, sipped