By Paul Carrier
In the years preceding the birth of the Roman Empire, unrest was rampant. Scheming leaders fought for control of the ever-expanding Roman world, even as the Republic began to crumble around them.
Some of the key players in these transitional struggles are better-known than others. Julius Caesar, for one. Gaius Octavius (who became Augustus, the first emperor). Marcus Antonius, whom we know as Mark Antony.
Caesar defeated Pompey the Great, only to be assassinated. In short order, Octavius and Antony killed off Brutus and that lot, after which Octavius crushed Antony and Cleopatra in what proved to be the final war of the Roman Republic, ushering in the autocracy of the Empire.
But even before all that, two other giants walked the streets of Rome: Marius and Sulla. They are the protagonists in the late Colleen McCullough’s 1990 novel The First Man in Rome, which opens her seven-part Masters of Rome series.
Gaius Marius (157 B.C.—86 B.C.) and Lucius Cornelius Sulla (c. 136 B.C.—to 78 B.C.) began their rise as fast friends, and remain so during the decade covered by the novel, but they became bitter enemies over time. They may not be as celebrated as the warring leaders who followed them, but the epic confrontation between their forces roiled the republic and helped set the stage for the turmoil to come.
As the novel opens in 110 B.C., Sulla is an impoverished patrician, a libertine whose pedigree would entitle him to a brilliant political career if he had the necessary funds to promote himself and gain entry into the Republic's highest circles. Marius is an ambitious and extremely wealthy provincial in his 40s, a “New Man” with the opposite problem. His is a pedestrian, Italian (meaning, non-Roman) bloodline in a society where Roman roots and aristocratic birth are politically important.
Their luck begins to change when Sulla inherits a large amount of money from two lovers. For his part, Marius marries into the patrician class by wedding Julia Caesar, the elder daughter of Gaius Julius Caesar, a well-respected senator from one of Rome’s premier families (and the future grandfather of the Julius Caesar). When Sulla marries Julia’s sister, he and Marius become brothers-in-law.
It was a time of momentous events, brazen leaders and important but publicly reserved women. Massive Roman armies subdued the African kingdom of Numidia and faced off against marauding Germanic tribes. Slave revolts cropped up. Mediterranean pirates wreaked havoc. The rest of Italy grew resentful in the face of Roman arrogance. Ambitious politicians jostled ever more aggressively for supremacy, and both Marius and Sulla rose to great heights.
McCullough’s depiction of life in ancient Rome, including the Republic’s history and customs, are remarkably detailed. In one of many asides, she notes that even slaves belonged to “burial clubs,” which administered savings accounts so members could afford tombstones for themselves. McCullough shifts easily between the personal lives of her characters and the great political and military developments of the era. The lust for power, mounting instability, sweeping reforms that empowered the poorest citizens, and the unbridled elitism of Rome’s patricians are recurring themes.
The amount of research McCullough did is staggering. A glossary written by the author runs to almost 100 pages; one entry alone, on the Gracchus brothers, takes up more than two full pages. The novel features a list of more than 40 main characters, as well as two pronunciation guides and assorted maps and drawings, all contributed by the author.
If I have one complaint about The First Man in Rome it is that it’s overly comprehensive, and too long as a result. Subplots and digressions abound, as if McCullough felt compelled to dump her research on the reader and work in everything that happened in Rome during this period.
The First Man in Rome is enlightening and memorable, with well-drawn characters, a believable plot loosely based on the historical record and, of course, a fascinating setting. But close to 800 pages of chicanery involving squabbling Romans with cumbersome, seemingly interchangeable names can be wearying. Still, the Latin obscenities were a lot of fun.
Some of the key players in these transitional struggles are better-known than others. Julius Caesar, for one. Gaius Octavius (who became Augustus, the first emperor). Marcus Antonius, whom we know as Mark Antony.
Caesar defeated Pompey the Great, only to be assassinated. In short order, Octavius and Antony killed off Brutus and that lot, after which Octavius crushed Antony and Cleopatra in what proved to be the final war of the Roman Republic, ushering in the autocracy of the Empire.
But even before all that, two other giants walked the streets of Rome: Marius and Sulla. They are the protagonists in the late Colleen McCullough’s 1990 novel The First Man in Rome, which opens her seven-part Masters of Rome series.
Gaius Marius (157 B.C.—86 B.C.) and Lucius Cornelius Sulla (c. 136 B.C.—to 78 B.C.) began their rise as fast friends, and remain so during the decade covered by the novel, but they became bitter enemies over time. They may not be as celebrated as the warring leaders who followed them, but the epic confrontation between their forces roiled the republic and helped set the stage for the turmoil to come.
As the novel opens in 110 B.C., Sulla is an impoverished patrician, a libertine whose pedigree would entitle him to a brilliant political career if he had the necessary funds to promote himself and gain entry into the Republic's highest circles. Marius is an ambitious and extremely wealthy provincial in his 40s, a “New Man” with the opposite problem. His is a pedestrian, Italian (meaning, non-Roman) bloodline in a society where Roman roots and aristocratic birth are politically important.
Their luck begins to change when Sulla inherits a large amount of money from two lovers. For his part, Marius marries into the patrician class by wedding Julia Caesar, the elder daughter of Gaius Julius Caesar, a well-respected senator from one of Rome’s premier families (and the future grandfather of the Julius Caesar). When Sulla marries Julia’s sister, he and Marius become brothers-in-law.
It was a time of momentous events, brazen leaders and important but publicly reserved women. Massive Roman armies subdued the African kingdom of Numidia and faced off against marauding Germanic tribes. Slave revolts cropped up. Mediterranean pirates wreaked havoc. The rest of Italy grew resentful in the face of Roman arrogance. Ambitious politicians jostled ever more aggressively for supremacy, and both Marius and Sulla rose to great heights.
McCullough’s depiction of life in ancient Rome, including the Republic’s history and customs, are remarkably detailed. In one of many asides, she notes that even slaves belonged to “burial clubs,” which administered savings accounts so members could afford tombstones for themselves. McCullough shifts easily between the personal lives of her characters and the great political and military developments of the era. The lust for power, mounting instability, sweeping reforms that empowered the poorest citizens, and the unbridled elitism of Rome’s patricians are recurring themes.
The amount of research McCullough did is staggering. A glossary written by the author runs to almost 100 pages; one entry alone, on the Gracchus brothers, takes up more than two full pages. The novel features a list of more than 40 main characters, as well as two pronunciation guides and assorted maps and drawings, all contributed by the author.
If I have one complaint about The First Man in Rome it is that it’s overly comprehensive, and too long as a result. Subplots and digressions abound, as if McCullough felt compelled to dump her research on the reader and work in everything that happened in Rome during this period.
The First Man in Rome is enlightening and memorable, with well-drawn characters, a believable plot loosely based on the historical record and, of course, a fascinating setting. But close to 800 pages of chicanery involving squabbling Romans with cumbersome, seemingly interchangeable names can be wearying. Still, the Latin obscenities were a lot of fun.
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