A Pillar of Iron
Page 6
This was more bad manners. Tullius was very uncomfortable. Children were so exigent and bold these days. Their parents were remiss, and their teachers.
“I do not know,” said Tullius. He wanted to retreat, but the boy’s fierce if smiling eyes transfixed him. It was as if he was amused by the man and was gloating over his evident discomfiture. To direct the child’s attention from himself only, Tullius said, “What is your name and where do you live?”
The boy said in surprise, “I live in this house, next to yours. My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, and my father is named the same and my mother is Aurelia. I go to the school of Pilo, the freedman. Do you have any little boys like me?”
Tullius did not particularly like the house over which his father was now triumphantly in the last stages of victorious bargaining, and he liked it less at the thought of having such a neighbor for his well-behaved children. He tried to look formidable. “Two little boys, Gaius,” he said. “Well-mannered, and one is very studious. They have been carefully nurtured.”
The boy’s eyes did a hilarious dance. He knew timid adults when he saw them and liked to plague them. “They call me Julius,” he said. “Will your boys go to school with me?”
Tullius wanted to flee from those mocking eyes, but he was always helpless before bad manners in child or adult. So he said, “I have a little boy of your age, Quintus Tullius Cicero. My older son is Marcus Tullius Cicero, but he is nine years old and so would not play with you.”
Julius laughed raucously. “Cicero! Chick-pea! What a funny name!” He gazed at Tullius with delight. “It is a plebeian name, is it not? Mine is very old and noble. As for your son, Marcus, who is nine years old, he is not too old for me though I am but five. My best friend is even older, eleven, and his name is Lucius Sergius Catilina. He is very patrician, even more patrician than my family is. We are all patricians.”
It was foolish to feel so stung at the heedless words of a child, Tullius told himself. “We are not plebs,” he said, with some annoyance. “This is not a fashionable neighborhood,” and he hated himself for speaking so, “so why are you patricians living here?”
“The money,” said the child, loftily, “has left us. But we have not left our names. We shall not always live here. We shall move to the Palatine directly.”
“Good,” said Tullius, and turned to go. The child whistled loud and derisively, and Tullius went back into the house to discover his father signing papers the agents had presented and writing a draft on his bank for the down payment. “Stay, Father,” said Tullius. “I am afraid we have undesirable neighbors.”
“The Caesares?” asked one of the burly agents in surprise. “One of the best families of Rome.”
“One must think of one’s children,” said Tullius, who was disliking the house more and more. “The little boy, Julius Caesar, does not appear desirable to me, and as my boys will go to the school of Pilo, the freedman and Greek, they will of necessity be Julius’ schoolmates.”
“Nonsense,” said the grandfather. “It is true that city children are too free in their ways and lack reverence for their elders, but Marcus and Quintus have been carefully reared and will not be polluted by any ragamuffin like that—Julius? Caesar? I have heard of the Caesares. They are a good family. Besides, I have made an excellent bargain.”
“Too excellent,” said one agent, who smarted at being bested by a countryman.
Nothing could turn the grandfather from a bargain, even if it were not appetizing. So Tullius surrendered as usual. The grandfather, who had been denigrating the house to the agents, now enlarged on its desirability. “Look at these rooms!” he exclaimed, to the dissenting face of his son. “The hall, the atrium, the sleeping rooms, the dining room, the slaves’ quarters, the gardens, the space! Large! Commodious! Airy! And what a view of the city from the outdoor portico! Observe this vestibule! These fine floors, these glassed windows, as fine as any Alexandrian glass!” He scowled at the silent Tullius. “It was not my will that we leave Arpinum. It was in behalf of your health. We could find no more suitable house in all of Rome, Tullius, so why this whim of yours against a child?”
Tullius thought, Chick-pea! He said, “One cannot be too careful about one’s children. Very well,” he sighed. “It is truly a fine house.” The agents grunted. “The balance of the payment,” they said to the grandfather, “is due when you take possession.”
“You will find my banking affairs to your satisfaction,” said the grandfather.
He rubbed his hands together. “It is a great bargain,” he said. “Even Helvia will be satisfied.” He looked at the agents. “My daughter-in-law, my son’s wife, is of the noble Helvii.”
Tullius was mortified that his father should try to impress agents. They looked properly impressed which mortified Tullius the more.
“Noble is as noble does,” he said, but no one listened to him, as usual.
*Letter to Sallust.
CHAPTER FIVE
The family was well settled in the Roman house before the first snow appeared on the hills. Helvia was pleased with the house, especially when she discovered that it had indeed been a bargain. She liked the Caesares, whom her parents knew well. Of noble birth, she did not care that the neighborhood was rapidly becoming less fashionable month by month. Even Tullius became reconciled. In the city no one urged him to take long brisk walks for his health, and he could huddle undisturbed around the biggest and hottest brazier without encountering arguments. It was understood that the city was dangerous and the traffic a curse, and as the family did not pamper itself with effete litters Tullius was left in peace in his library and among his books and in his conversations with Archias.
Marcus went to the school of Pilo, the Greek freedman, and was tutored by Archias after his return. It was decided that Quintus should be tutored completely by Archias for at least a year. This pleased Tullius, and he thought of little Julius Caesar next door whom he was disliking more and more as time passed. He never could bring himself to like any of the Caesares, especially the overweening Aurelia. The father, Gaius Julius, was a taciturn man who had business in the city, and had a sour face and was evidently no scholar. He and Tullius encountered each other rarely, for which Tullius was grateful. But little Julius invaded the house freely and the good-tempered Helvia did not care, for she was not afraid of children. She would slap Julius as readily as she slapped her favorite, Quintus, and the boy would laugh heartily. The grandfather found cronies, old veterans like himself who had gathering spots in the city, the Tonsoria for one, and he would drive the one chariot himself to the Forum, or walk hardily down in good weather, to mingle with his peers and exchange stories of dead old campaigns. Everyone, then, was satisfied, though Tullius longed for the spring and the island, and quiet. His life, in spite of his original resolutions, had become almost a replica of his secluded existence in his beloved Arpinum.
Young Marcus found the city exciting and full of wonders, and lingered to look at it on his way to school and on the way home. There was a smell about the city which invigorated him and which lay under the welter of stenches. He loved the shops, the fora, the sound of life and bustle, the teeming people, the façades of temples, the lofty single pillars bearing upon their tops the statues of heroes or the figures of winged deities driving chariots, the mighty fanned steps rising everywhere from street to upper street, the odors of frying fish and baking pastries and roasting meats and wines that gushed from the doors of inns, the crowded porticoes, the sudden brief clamor of music coming from small theatres as the musicians practiced, the air of might and business, the government buildings swarming with avid bureaucrats, the circuses always surrounded by mobs holding tickets aloft no matter the hour of the day, the clangor of traffic daily growing more dangerous, the whinny of horses, the clatter of wheels, the shouts, the rushing of women from doorway to doorway, the sight of the sun on red brick, the well-paved streets on which children played at all hours, and the general vociferous and roaring voice of power.
Pilo was an austere and dogmatic man with many airs, for he had once been a slave and now felt his importance, and was unbending and had a slavish respect for those with great names. His attitude was compounded of authority and servility toward the boys of noted family if depleted purse. To those of more plebeian origin and better purses he was condescending. They were upstarts and should not be permitted to forget the fact. He and Archias had had an encounter which had left the proud and stiff-necked Pilo shaken. “I have never been a slave,” said Archias who had brought Marcus to school on the first day, “so,” he added pleasantly, “I am democratic. The fee paid you for the teaching of this boy—who is sent here not because I am inadequate but because he needs the company of his mates—is more than customary. I have made enquiries. Therefore, in order that I not inform my employer of this fact you will divide the fee with me. I do not need it, but you need a lesson. Remember that Marcus is the son of the Helvii as well as the Tullii, who claim ancient ancestry also. Do not teach Marcus affectations and improper attitudes toward superiors and inferiors. Do not despise him because he comes from the country. After all, Cincinnatus, the father of his country, was also a farmer. He has an excellent mind; see that you do not corrupt it.”
He rubbed a delicate finger around his lips and smiled at Pilo, who was tall and thin and withered. “We are Greeks,” he said, in conciliation. “We are captives of barbarians. I am training Marcus to respect what we represent, though our glory is long passed even if our memory is like a golden glow on the horizon. Remember you are a Greek. I have heard you have forgotten it in the presence of these Romans.”
He both frightened and pleased Pilo, who at first was determined to be kind to Marcus. He did not find it too arduous. The boy’s calm, firm, and pleasant temper caused him no trouble, and his appearance was ingratiating, with all that fine and curling brown hair and the strangely colored and shining eyes. Too, Marcus had an air of gentle authority, and his profile, Pilo conceded, was definitely aristocratic.
As he was far advanced over boys his age Marcus was placed with older boys. Pilo’s schoolroom was large and airy, and he had two tiny rooms behind it for his own quarters and a slave to prepare his meals and do the cleaning. Marcus liked the school, itself, but not some of his classmates. He came to hate with a lifelong hatred the great friend of Julius Caesar, Lucius Sergius Catilina. Lucius was a favorite of Pilo’s, for his family was both ancient and aristocratic and led almost all other names in Rome, though the family was now impoverished.
Lucius was above all an extremely handsome boy, not in a pretty, effeminate fashion but with intense and delicate virility. He had enormous personal magnetism which most people found irresistible, even his enemies, of whom, considering his character, he amazingly had few. He was a natural leader, and even those wary of him and disliking him followed him. Marcus learned for the first time that virtue and good manners did not necessarily draw friends to one, nor did greatness of heart and mind. In fact, he discovered, these very qualities often had a repellent effect, most men being what they are by nature. An evil man was more bearable to the majority of men than a good man, who was a constant reproach and therefore to be despised.
He was never to understand the motives, in entirety, of those such as Lucius Sergius Catilina. Like everyone else he was fascinated by the appearance of this patrician boy who was two years his senior. Lucius was taller than the average and had a graceful figure. He looked like an accomplished dancer, which indeed he was. He was accomplished in everything, including sports. He was eloquent and had an exquisitely beguiling voice which enchanted friend and foe alike, for it was full of nuances and murmurs and extraordinary humor, and very musical. For the rest, he had a smooth dark face, finely molded and beautiful with a noble brow, thick silky black eyebrows and lashes framing extraordinary blue eyes which were large and brilliant, a nose with sharp nostrils, a mobile mouth as red as a berry and dimpled in the right corner, glittering white teeth perfect as pearls, and a rounded chin like a Greek. He carried himself perfectly, as if aware of his unusual beauty and evil charm, which he was. His manners were fastidious, his smile seductive, his taste impeccable. He learned easily and quickly, and engaged Pilo in subtle arguments. His intelligence was far above the ordinary, and in fact, at eleven, he could have bested many of the minor philosophers.
Marcus conceded his fascinating gifts and his beauty. He could not endure what he innocently guessed lay under all that enchantment: that Lucius was corrupt.
Hatred was unknown to Marcus; he had never encountered it before either in himself or in his family. Therefore, he was stunned when he early discovered that Lucius’ baiting of him was not mere schoolboy taunting founded on good-nature, but was inspired by a baffling rejection extended to the stranger and especially to the virtuous. All that Marcus was, generous, calm of temper, patient, kind and studious, persistent if a little plodding, aroused Lucius’ enmity and contempt and laughter.
There were adolescent boys in the school, older than Lucius, and many younger. He was unchallenged leader of them all. He borrowed money and never repaid it, and the donor felt himself honored. He had no rings, no golden armlets, no fine shoes, and his tunics and cloaks were of the simplest material. Yet the richest boy felt himself singled out for favors if Lucius noticed his existence. He insulted Pilo with lazy grace, and Pilo smiled sheepishly and goggled at the boy as a silly father would goggle at his only, long-awaited son. The slave served him the best tidbits and wine.
It was inevitable that such as Lucius Sergius Catilina should persecute such a one as Marcus Tullius Cicero. Their eyes had only to meet for them to understand at once that enmity stood between them, that their natures were antipathetic and in violent opposition. Even so Marcus could have tolerated and endured Lucius and even admired him at a distance had Lucius not always sought him out to heap detestation and ridicule on him. Years later Lucius was to say to Marcus, “I hated you, Chick-pea, the moment I saw you, and why that was so I do not know. You made me writhe in my bowels.”
Being surrounded by boys of the same age or just a little older or younger was a new experience for Marcus, whom Lucius early called “the bumpkin.” He discovered shyness. The boys stared at him with open appraisal. It was immediately evident to them that here was no sophisticated city boy, but perhaps even a simpleton. His gentle appearance amused them. His quietness, his earnest devotion to study, his way of effacing himself, his respect for his teacher, vexed them. He had no news of the city, no scandal to report, no gossip. He had not learned to dice, to play adult games; he knew no lewd stories. He did not laugh at the pain of others. He did not like to throw stones at birds or a sick horse drinking in the gutter. In consequence the boys made him the target of their jokes. Why, they said, little Julius Caesar was more of a man than this milk-fed scion of the far countryside. Pilo found no fault with him, which was the worst fault of all.
For the first time in his life Marcus came face to face with the evil that was man, and it sickened him. When he said to himself, Evil, too, must be endured, he entered manhood long before adolescence. His young lips became less soft and their outlines stiffened.
Helvia said, “He needs a tonic,” and as she had brought many bags of her herbs with her from the country she set herself to brewing concoctions that made the boy retch. He did not complain; the bitter taste in his mouth was no bitterer than his new knowledge of his fellowman.
There must be something wrong with me, he told himself. I am not like the others. He had always had the assurance of a child dearly loved by family,
but now his assurance became less certain, especially at school.
He and little Julius Caesar went to school together, swinging their books. When away from his idol, Lucius, Julius was a good companion and full of his own charm, and inclined to a great wit. He was much older than his years; he found Quintus, of his own age, tedious. In his precocious way he liked Marcus, whom he considered a little foolish. But Marcus was always kind; he could always be coaxed out of a few coppers at recess when the vendor came to the door of the school with sweetmeats and hot small pastries full of spiced meat and sugary dates and rich nuts and golden fruit.
At first Marcus could not believe that the eleven-year-old Lucius could really be a close friend of the five-year-old Julius, for all Julius’ precocity of mind and speech. But it was quite true. Julius adored Lucius and plagued him, and Lucius would cuff him with an appearance of fondness. They had many things in common, such as lack of money to spend freely, and their parents were old and affectionate friends, and they were both sophisticated and without scruple. Julius was never driven from a gossiping group of older boys, because Lucius was his protector in spite of his frequent blows. There was much that was evil in Julius Caesar, for he always wanted to be foremost and was sometimes unbearably domineering, but there was much that was good, such as humor and sudden surges of generosity.
Julius laughed the loudest when Lucius baited Marcus, but away from his idol he showed Marcus considerable affection and kindly took it upon himself to enlighten Marcus about the ways of city life. He was very ambitious, even at five. His family had little money; he would become rich, he confided to Marcus. He would also be famous, he asserted. Marcus would smile down at him with the superiority of years, and Julius would scowl up at him and shake his head fiercely, his fine black hair flying. “You must study harder,” said Marcus.
“The boy is too wise for his years,” said Archias. “It is not the kind of wisdom which is reassuring, however. It is rather a shrewdness, an ability to use others, a cunning understanding of the weaknesses of those about him. He will exploit his fellows when he is a man.”