Chapter Eleven: Noble Men

Part 11 – To the Victors



 Two days later, Lucius found himself summoned to the command tent. Caesar was there, along with several clerks and his senior legates, and the general Quintus Lutatius Catulus Senior. Lucius acknowledged his late friend’s father with a meaningful nod, and the older Catulus returned it with a nod of his own and a sad but affectionate smile, remembering, as he always did when he saw this remarkable young man, how Lucius had stood alone above his only son’s body, protecting him from the enemy as he lay dying.

“Ah, Lucius Rutullus,” Caesar said with a smile. “Come in, sit down,” he said, beckoning the junior legate into a chair placed in front of his desk, then glancing at the scrolls in front of him. “What you see before you is the price for being made Consul-for-life,” he said with a rueful grin. “Paperwork, masses of it. My task today is to determine what to do with the not-inconsiderable amount of gold the army claimed as booty during this war.” Caesar looked up from his scrolls. “What do you think I should do with it?”

Lucius blinked, his brows raising in surprise. Since becoming a junior legate he’d grown used to having his opinion solicited on matters of tactics and strategy on occasion, but he was taken aback now that Caesar was asking him, for the first time, to weigh in on a political issue. Normally, he would have been cautious. But for months now, he’d been struggling with those troubling thoughts about the morality of the war and the plight of the Aztec people. He thought of Cuicatl in particular, the orphaned Aztec girl he’d taken under his wing. He leaned forward, his lone eye suddenly alight, his voice impassioned as he spoke.

“The money belongs to the Aztec people, Caesar,” he said firmly. “They’ve suffered greatly as a result of this war, even if they are better off now under Roman rule than they were under Montezuma. If it were up to me, I’d reinvest the money into rebuilding Aztec infrastructure.”

“Would you?” Caesar asked, his voice neutral.

“Yes, Caesar,” Lucius said, no hesitation in his voice as he spoke to the immortal who had led his civilization for millenia. “We have a moral imperative to do so. If you need to convince the more self-interested parties in the Senate and Plebeian Assembly, consider this argument: the investment would pay for itself. Former Aztec cities will be contributing taxes back to the Roman treasury much earlier, and in much greater amounts, if the infrastructure is put in place to support local enterprise.”

Caesar smiled, glanced around at his senior legates, who were also smiling, then he clapped his hands. “Oh, well said, Lucius Rutullus! That old saw is true—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”

Lucius couldn’t help blushing in reaction to being so favourably compared to his illustrious ancestors. Yes, blushing—he, the battle-scarred veteran!

“You’d do well in the Senate, my boy, with speeches like that,” Quintus Lutatius Catulus Senior said. “We could certainly use your support there, to get measures like this through. Aren’t you almost thirty now? Nearly of age to wear the purple stripe, eh?”

Lucius pressed his lips together. “Sir, I won’t be entering the Senate. I don’t meet the financial qualifications.”

“On the contrary,” Caesar said, then handed Lucius one of the scrolls from his desk.

Lucius took the scroll, frowning, and read its contents. It consisted, essentially, of his service record, except beside each item was a number, and at the bottom, a total of that number, expressed in talents of gold. And it was a very large number indeed.

“There must be some mistake,” Lucius muttered, his voice as tight as his lone eye was wide.

“I should say not!” one of the clerks suddenly interjected. A reedy man with a receding hairline, he was visibly offended by Lucius’ unintended implication that there could be a mistake in his figures. He leaned over and peremptorily snatched the scroll from Lucius’ hands, then scanned it.

“Lucius Rutulllus Lepidus,” Caesar said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “may I present Quintus Servillius Caepio. Not much of a soldier, but one hell of a book-keeper!”

“The Servillii do not make mistakes,” Caepio sniffed, ignoring the amused grins of Caesar’s senior staff, “not when in comes to counting money. Even if it isn’t our own. Especially if it isn’t our own. A matter of family honour, you understand. Now let’s see here… Six years’ service, achieving rank of junior legate. Participant in the Battle of Tlatelolco, the Battle of Tentihuacan, the Battle of… really, these names!”

“We’ll be changing them,” Caesar assured Caepio with an amused grin.

“The Battles of et cetera and et cetera,” the clerk continued impatiently. “Recipient of the grass crown, oak crown, mural crown—thrice, that one, good thing you have what looks to be a strong neck, what with all these crowns your head has to bear—the hasta pura, several armillae and phalerae, oh, and compensation for the loss of an eye, of course.” His lips moved as he discreetly added up the corresponding figures. “Correct to the last denarius, I assure you,” Caepio concluded, and handed the scroll back to a still-shocked but much chastened Lucius Rutullus.

“You are only half correct about the war booty,” Caesar told him. “Half will go towards rebuilding formerly Aztec lands, once those of us present get the Senate, the People, and the Treasury to agree, and I’m sure we will. It will be more than enough; the population of the former Aztec Empire is much reduced, you see, and frankly, Montezuma kept them abhorrently backwards. So it won’t take as much money to rebuild, because in many cases, there was never anything built in the first place. Additional infrastructure can be built at a less-rushed pace. So the other half of the gold I’m splitting amongst the veterans of the campaign, based upon length of service, rank, action seen, awards earned, and so on.”

“The Senate will have no choice but to agree to that,” Quintus Lutatius Catulus Senior said, “unless they want rioting in the streets!”

“Yes, I’m sure it will prove to be a popular measure,” Caesar agreed.

“Most of the men will waste the money on wine, cheap entertainments, and loose women,” Caepio sniffed.

“All of which are taxed,” Caesar pointed out, smiling, “so the treasury gets its due one way or the other.” Once the laughter died down, Caesar returned his attention to Lucius. “Your record is by far the most illustrious of all those serving in the Aztec campaign, my young friend, hence the figure at the bottom of that scroll. More than enough to qualify you for the Senate—which is where the wise, steady voices of the Rutulli belong.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Lucius said honestly.

Caesar nodded. “Well, I have something else to say,” and he rose from his desk and walked towards the flap of the tent, beckoning for Lucius but no one else to follow. Once they were outside and out of earshot of anyone save themselves, Caesar leaned in close. “Of course you know that to qualify for the Senate, you need to have land, which is what you’ll need to purchase with that gold.”

“Of course,” Lucius said, though in truth he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Yes, well, I just happen to know there’s a bit of prime real estate about to come available on the market,” Caesar added, sotto voce. “A certain hill, just north of Teotihuacan.”

“A hill?” Lucius said dubiously.

“Mm-hmm. A hill,” Caesar said, nodding. “With a mine.”

“A mine…” Lucius said, beginning to understand Caesar’s meaning now.



“A gold mine,” Caesar whispered, then winked conspiratorially. “Literally. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, my boy, it’s this: gold begets gold, if it’s managed properly,” he said. He then frowned thoughtfully. “Caepio’s an interesting fellow, don’t you think?” Lucius merely frowned in response, puzzled by this apparent non sequitur. “His service ends around the same time your does. I’m not sure what he’ll be doing when he becomes a civilian again.” Caesar shrugged, considered the seed well-planted, and continued. “Think well upon my advice, Lucius. The gold on that slip of paper will get you into the Senate. The gold in those hills will put you in the Consul’s chair.” Lucius looked shocked; Caesar frowned. “Oh, don’t be naïve, son! Of course a man has to qualify based upon merit, but it takes money to run a campaign, you know.”

“Of course,” Lucius said, though he realized he knew nothing of politics, but he was going to have to learn. “Thank you, Caesar,” he said just as his leader was turning to walk back to the command tent.

“Oh, don’t thank me, Lucius Rutullus,” Caesar said, turning back to face him. “Thank you. On behalf of Rome. You earned it. All of it,” Caesar assured him. “And were your ancestors here today, they’d tell you the same thing. Dismissed,” he added with a wave as he ducked back inside the tent.

Once inside, Catullus Senior cast a questioning glance in Caesar’s direction. “So do you think we can count on him?”

“For the most part, I believe so, yes,” Caesar replied. “Though I daresay he’ll be his own man rather than nestling snugly into the folds of our togas. I’d expect nothing less of one of the Rutulli.”

Catullus Senior grunted. “They’re starting to call him ‘Aztecus’, you know,” he said, his voice neutral.

Caesar cast an appraising glance at his friend and colleague. There seemed to be more grey in Cutullus’ hair since the death of his son, less light in his eyes. He was still the most talented general Rome had—aside from Caesar himself—but to the immortal it seemed as if some of the man’s former drive and energy had vanished after that sad event.

“How do you feel about that?” Caesar asked. “As the field general in the Aztec theatre, by rights, that cognomen should be yours.”

Catullus Senior shook his head. “Were it any other man, I might resent it. But after what he did for my boy…” His lips pressed together and he shook his head again. “No, the honour is his. I’m just a general. He’s the hero.”

***

Lucius Rutullus, of course, had never considered himself a hero. Despite Caesar’s undeniable wisdom and experience, Lucius’ mind had not been set to rest on certain points that still plagued his conscience. Only one man stood a chance of doing that, and while Caesar and Catullus Senior conferred in the command tent, Lucius left the Roman camp to go see him.

Fortunately, Mencius was still in Calixtlahuaca, ministering to the Confucians there who’d never thought to have a genuine priest among them, let alone the High Priest himself! Lucius found him at the site of the town’s future Confucian temple, holding forth in the open air. A few marble benches had been placed on the as-yet empty, grassy site. Seated upon them were Mencius and several Aztecs who appeared mildly surprised and abashed in response to his words. He had to set them straight on certain points of orthodoxy, of course; they’d developed a couple of strange, or, he generously allowed, misinterpreted ideas because of their isolation.



“I assure you, the Master would never have condoned human sacrifice,” he calmly but firmly told them. He spotted Lucius out of the corner of his eye, then smiled at his devotees and nodded respectfully. “Now you must excuse me. A friend has just arrived who requires my counsel.”

“Your Nahuatl is excellent, Master,” Lucius told him once they were alone. “And your perception remains undiminished.”

“I have lingered here in Calixtlahuaca not just to minister to our long-isolated flock,” Mencius told him. “I’ve been waiting for you, my young friend. I saw your need in your eyes that day the city was liberated. So now that you have finally sought me out, tell me—what is on your mind?”

Lucius sat down heavily upon a marble bench next to the elderly priest.

“You remember my circumstances when we first met?” he asked Mencius, who nodded. “Well, they are now almost completely reversed. I now have the means to enter the Senate, and to possibly even go further than that. I’ve made a name for myself on the battlefield which will fuel my political career. I might even…” He paused, wondering if even speaking of his most fervent hope was bad luck. “Claudia…” was all he managed to say in a reverent whisper.

Mencius nodded. “She’s a widow now,” he said. “She hasn’t remarried, you know, even though it’s been…what… nearly four years since her husband died? I think we both know why.”

Lucius shook his head. “I wish I shared your confidence, Master,” he said. “I just can’t help feeling that… that I don’t deserve it. Any of it.”

Mencius looked at him and nodded yet again. Lucius glanced at him; he’d expected the High Priest to chastise him and contradict him, but he did not, and Lucius realized that he was grateful. He also realized he’d underestimated just how wise the High Priest was.

“Tell my why you feel that way,” Mencius said evenly.

“Because of everything. The war. All the death I’ve meted out. But mainly… because of Catullus,” he said, then told Mencius everything. How he’d wanted to hate Catullus but couldn’t; how he’d promised Claudia he’d look out for him; how they’d become the closest if unlikeliest of friends; and how, finally, he’d failed his friend, and his beloved, and himself, inside the gates of the Aztec capital. By the time he finished, tears were streaming from his remaining eye.

“I can’t help wondering, what if I could have saved him, but didn’t?” Lucius said, his voice ripe with agony. “What if there was something more I could have done, but didn’t do, because… because… some part of me, some ugly, vicious part of me thought that if he died, then Claudia and I…” His voice cracked, and his head fell into his hands. “He was my friend. And now he’s dead, and I…”

The big shoulders heaved, and Mencius reached out and lay one hand upon them.

“I have heard,” Mencius said, “that you fought like a demon over your friend’s wounded body. You even lost an eye in the fight.” Lucius nodded. “Those do not sound like the actions of a man who wanted his rival dead, Lucius Rutullus. Those sound like the actions of a gallant comrade and a loving friend.

“We all carry evil in our hearts,” the priest continued. “Do not judge yourself by that. Judge yourself by what you do. If we owe anything to the dead, it’s life itself. Live your life, Lucius. Don’t merely exist; live. After all my years on earth, that’s the one thing I think I’ve learned for certain.”

Lucius sat silently with the Confucian High Priest for several minutes, turning over what he’d said in his mind. He began to nod slowly, the rose quickly to his feet.

“Thank you, Master,” Lucius said, pausing just long enough to shake the High Priest’s hand before he marched out the door.

“Oh, to be that young again!” Mencius said as he pushed his creaking body up from the hard marble bench.