Only how can they forget all those years when together they fought Rome's foreign enemies? How can they let this Rome-induced discontent blot out all that's gone before? The tribunate of Saturninus was the end of the old life. Saturninus, who had wanted to be king of Rome and that unfortunate stroke of Marius's. Then, said he to himself, Nonsense, Publius Rutilius Rufus! They're both men who have to be up and doing important things, they're just not the sort to like sitting at home and being out of office when they are at home. Give them another war to fight together, or a Saturninus inciting revolution, and they'd be purring like a pair of cats washing each other's faces. Time got away, of course. He and Gaius Marius were in their sixtieth year, and Lucius Cornelius Sulla was forty-two. Not being addicted to peering into the uneven depths of a mirror, Publius Rutilius Rufus wasn't sure how he himself had weathered the vicissitudes of age, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes at the distance from which he now viewed Gaius Marius and Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Gaius Marius was sufficiently heavier these days to warrant the making of new togas; a big man always but a fit and well-proportioned one his extra weight was distributed on shoulders, back, hips and thighs as well as a rather muscular-looking paunch; and to some extent this additional burden he carried had smoothed out his face, which was bigger, rounder, higher in the forehead thanks to receding hair. Deliberately Rutilius Rufus ignored the left-sided paresis, dwelt instead upon those amazing eyebrows, as huge and bushy and undisciplined as ever. Oh, what storms of artistic consternation Gaius Marius's brows had raised in many a sculptor's breast! Commissioned to take the Marian portrait in stone for some town or guild or vacant plot just crying for a statue, those sculptors who lived in Rome or Italy knew before they set eyes on Gaius Marius what they had to contend with.