Free Fortune's Favorites by Colleen McCullough Page A

gives him relief from the itching, so he drinks.” Varro sighed. “He drinks far too much.”
    “Why his face? Why not his arms or legs?” Pompey asked, only half believing this tale.
    “He had a bad sunburn on his face-don't you remember how he always wore a shady hat whenever he was in the sun? But there had been some local ceremony to welcome him, he insisted on going through with-it despite his illness, and his vanity prompted him to wear a helmet instead of his hat. I presume it was the sunburn predisposed the skin of his face to break down,” said Varro, who was as fascinated as Pompey was revolted. “His whole head looks like a mulberry sprinkled with meal! Quite extraordinary!”
    “You sound exactly like an unctuous Greek physician,” said Pompey, feeling his own face emerge from its plaster mask at last. “Where are we housed? Is it far? And what about my men?”
    “I believe that Metellus Pius has gone to guide your men to their camp. We're in a nice house not far down this street. If you come and break your fast now, we can ride out afterward and find your men.” Varro put his hand kindly on Pompey's strong freckled arm, at a loss to know what was really wrong. There was no pity in Pompey's nature, so much he had come to understand; why therefore was Pompey consumed with grief?
    That night Sulla entertained the two new arrivals at a big dinner in his general's house, its object to allow them to meet the other legates. Word had flown around Beneventum of Pompey's advent-his youth, his beauty, his adoring troops. And Sulla's legates were very put out, thought Varro in some amusement as he eyed their faces. They all looked as if their nursemaids had cruelly snatched a delicious honeycomb from their mouths, and when Sulla showed Pompey to the locus consularis on his own couch, then put no other man between them, the looks spoke murder. Not that Pompey cared! He made himself comfortable with unabashed pleasure and proceeded to talk to Sulla as if no one else was present.
    Sulla was sober, and apparently not itching. His face had crusted over a little since the morning, he was calm and friendly, and obviously quite entranced with Pompey. I can't be wrong about Pompey if Sulla sees it too, thought Varro.
    Deeming it wiser at first to keep his gaze concentrated within his immediate vicinity rather than to inspect each man in the room in turn, Varro smiled at his couch companion, Appius Claudius Pulcher. A man he liked and esteemed. “Is Sulla still capable of leading us?” he asked.
    “He's as brilliant as he ever was,” said Appius Claudius. “If we can keep him sober he'll eat Carbo, no matter how many troops Carbo can field.” Appius Claudius shivered, grimaced. “Can you feel the evil presences in this room, Varro?”
    “Very definitely,” said Varro, though he didn't think the kind of atmosphere he felt was what Appius Claudius meant.
    “I've been studying the subject a little,” Appius Claudius proceeded to explain, “among the minor temples and cults at Delphi. There are fingers of power all around us-quite invisible, of course. Most people aren't aware of them, but men like you and me, Varro, are hypersensitive to emanations from other places.”
    “What other places?” asked Varro, startled.
    “Underneath us. Above us. On all sides of us,” said Appius Claudius in sepulchral tones. “Fingers of power! I don't know how else to explain what I mean. How can anyone describe invisible somethings only the hypersensitive can feel touching them? I'm not talking about the gods, or Olympus, or even numina. ...”
    But the others in the room had lured Varro's attention away from poor Appius Claudius, who continued to drone on happily while Varro assessed the quality of Sulla's legates.
    Philippus and Cethegus, the great tergiversators. Every time Fortune favored a new set of men, Philippus and Cethegus turned their togas inside out or back to the right side again, eager to serve the new masters