But Clodia said coldly, “Mark Antony also told me of another matter. Catilina has demanded to be Consul of Rome.” Clodia waved her hand. “I care not what happens to the Consuls but I do care for my Marcus.”
Clodius continued to smile, but behind his smile he was terribly alarmed and angered. He was not one of the “raving patriots,” as he called those who loved their country. But he was no traitor. Let openly and lawfully elected officials be assassinated, and that would be the end. There were some politicians who created and loved chaos because it was a milieu in which they best maneuvered. He was not yet one of them.
But how could Cicero be warned? To go to him openly and warn him of the plot—which Clodius still did not entirely credit, for who listened to one such as the young Mark Antony?—would be to betray those to whom he had taken the secret blood-oath of brotherhood. They would then order his own murder. What, then, could he do?
“Do not think I would take Antony’s word alone,” said Clodia, who was watching him acutely. “You know I have Fulvia for a friend, who is the mistress of Q. Curius. Only three nights ago, she has told me with excitement, Curius boasted to her, in his cups and in wild elation, that the hour has come, and that your friends will strike in the first week of Janus.”
“Fulvia is an idle and gossiping woman,” said Clodius.
Clodia shook her head. “You do not believe that, my brother.”
Clodius said, “As you have these famous rumors, why do you not warn Cicero, yourself?”
“It is said,” Clodia remarked, “that Romans are subject to their women. In defense, they openly scoff at what they call ‘women’s gossip.’ Cicero would not listen to me.”
Clodia smiled seductively. Then she added, “I love my Marcus in my fashion. Let nothing evil occur to him. If your friends can destroy him with impunity, do you think they will hesitate to murder any other they might mistrust for a number of reasons?”
When he returned to his house Clodius pondered. His anger returned, and his sense of humiliation. He was also afraid. The only recourse was an anonymous letter to Cicero.
*From Cicero’s On Moral Duties.
*Letter from Catolus Lutatius to Silanus, in which he also urged “moderation.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Tullia was a young and graceful girl, of sweet and modest beauty and clear intelligence. Her materialistic mother could not understand Tullia’s gentleness; Terentia called it laziness of spirit and inability to make up one’s mind. There was indeed in Tullia her father’s love of compromise on unimportant matters but not on principle. She would say, “It may be true, Mother, what you say, based on what you have heard. Then again it may not be true but only public malice.”
On the occasion of her puberty her father had given her a beautiful marble statuette of Athene, and had said to her, “Wisdom is based on knowledge. But knowledge is not always wisdom. It is no paradox. There is intuitive knowledge, the source of wisdom. And there is objective knowledge, which is a collection of irrelevant facts. The man of wisdom is slow to give opinion, for he must sort out the intangibles. The man who has only knowledge is very swift in his judgments, for he does not recognize and does not see the vast imponderable forces which operate in the world. He is dangerous.”
Tullia adored her father. There were times when she secretly agreed with her mother that men were romantics and cherished dreams and other fantasia, and were often emotional. But she also believed that women’s materialism was too narrow, and that a life without a dream was no life at all. She admired Terentia for her many virtues; she did not know why her father could endure her. If Terentia complained and expressed her furious discontent with her husband, Tullia listened in silence, understanding that Terentia had many reasons for her complaints—for which Tullia forgave her father at once. But there was one thing for which Tullia could not forgive her father. Terentia was pregnant.
Tullia felt betrayed. As she was a wise child she knew this sense of betrayal was ridiculous. As a girl, half in love with her father, she still felt betrayed. She had not yet fully learned the instincts of compassion and the bonds which held man and wife together despite bitter controversy, anger, disgust, and even contempt. She was ashamed for both her parents, for her young mind was still singular.
She preferred to ignore her mother’s obvious pregnancy. In this she resembled her father, Marcus, who in his youth had been convinced that unpleasant matters were best not mentioned, and that if importance were not attached to them they would diminish and fade away. Terentia’s miseries of the flesh—for she was not young any longer—made Tullia recoil. Terentia complained, “I do not wish other children; this was inflicted upon me. Your father has no consideration.” But she smugly smiled under her long lip.
Marcus, despite all his knowledge of the world and his own common-sense, believed that he could protect his daughter against life. He had only to teach Tullia the old virtues, and to exhort her to love God, and all would be well. When thinking of Tullia he ignored Rome. He would create for Tullia an island of peace and joy and tranquillity. He would carefully choose her husband for tenderness and protection and character. He would deliver to that husband—and may he long not be acoming!—a vessel of gold filled with the essence of purity and sweetness. Tullia’s existence would be forever guarded, far from turmoil and pain and grief and bitterness. When Terentia’s pregnancy could no longer be overlooked, Marcus said to his daughter, “Always, you are first in my life, Tullia. Always, you will be first.”
Tullia often visited her grandfather, Tullius, in the house of her uncle Quintus. Neither of them possessed Marcus’ fluency with language or eloquence. They would walk together in the gardens of the house on the Carinae, in silence, hand in hand. But they communicated in spirit, and quite often Tullius, fading day by day, would suddenly turn to his tall young granddaughter and clasp her in his arms and shed his tears in her bright brown hair, which curled sweetly down her back. Sometimes they visited the temples together, and knelt without speaking or spoken prayer in the scented quiet. Both felt betrayed by son and by father.
Both detested the gleeful and slyly mischievous and ambiguous son of Quintus, and neither spoke of him. Tullia was afraid of Pomponia, who had a sharp and ready tongue. Pomponia once said to her, “Take nothing too seriously, my dear niece. More trouble is caused in the world by sober people without humor than men know of.” Quintus, who loved Tullia because she so resembled his brother in appearance, would say, “My love, you are a joy to my heart.”
One cold pale evening, shortly before the month of Janus, Tullia came into the library where her father, as usual, was writing. Marcus greeted her with fondness, and kissed the cheek she presented to him. She sat down, serenely conscious that he loved having her with him at this quiet hour. He put down his pen, smiled at her and said, “I have been considering who might, in the future, be an appropriate husband for you, my child. In the future,” he added hastily.
“I shall be content to remain with you all my life, my father,” she replied in her gentle voice.
He was flattered, but he shook his head. “That cannot be.” She saw that he seemed unusually haggard and abstracted. He played with the pen on his table. He went on, though his thoughts were truly far from the subject: “You are being taught the arts of a wife and a mother from your own mother. Blessed will be the man who will take your hand in marriage. Later.” He took up his pen to write again, and Tullia sat in her chair and lifted the book she had put down the night before. The lamplight flickered; a cold draft blew the curtains at the windows. There would be snow soon, and wild winds. The great house was silent. The library was far from the women’s quarters. Marcus poured a goblet of sweet wine for his daughter, and another not so sweet, for himself, and they drank in a contented silence. But all at once the pen was still in Marcus’ hand and he stared before him grimly.
Aulus, the overseer of the atrium, knocked discreetly at the door and entered. “Lord,” he said, “I have here a letter for
you from a mysterious personage, cowled and cloaked, who did not show his face. He implored you to read and comprehend.”
Marcus took the letter which was sealed bluntly but with no distinguishing marks. “You did not know him, Aulus?”
“No, lord.” Marcus opened the letter. Tullia glanced up, watching her father’s intent face. Marcus read:
“Greetings to the noble Marcus Tullius Cicero from an unknown friend:
“Beware! Your murder is plotted by those you know during the first week of the month of Janus. Ignore this message at your desperate peril. Guard your household and your comings and goings, and go nowhere without an armed escort.”
“Father?” said Tullia, rising and moving toward Marcus’ table. She had never seen him wear so frightful an expression before. He tried to smile, seeing her alarm. “It is late, child,” he said. “I wish to be alone.” He accepted her kiss. He said to Aulus, “Conduct the Lady Tullia to her apartments and command a slave to sleep on her threshold.” After a moment he added, “Let other slaves sleep at each door and let each be armed.”
“Yes, lord,” said Aulus, in his subdued voice. “I shall also order armed slaves at the door of the atrium, and have them patrol the gardens.”
Tullia was full of fear, but Aulus waited for her, bowing, and Marcus said, “Let us not be unduly alarmed. But let it be as I and Aulus say, my daughter.”
When he was alone Marcus reread the letter. He was not especially surprised. His instinct had warned him weeks ago. He sank into thought. If his murder were plotted, then Rome was in dreadful danger also. He clapped his hands for Aulus, in order to send a slave for his brother, Quintus. All at once he was horribly frightened, not for himself but for his family and his country. Aulus entered, with a troubled face, and before Marcus could speak he said, “Lord, there is another mysterious personage, who has just arrived. He begs for an audience with you. Alone.”
“He is armed?”
Aulus smiled discreetly. “With only a dagger, lord. But he also is cowled and cloaked, and his face hidden. He came on foot.”
“Request that he give you his dagger, Aulus, then admit him to my library and stand prepared on the outside threshold.”
Aulus asked no questions. He retreated and a moment later he brought with him a tall and sturdy figure swathed and cowled and silent. Aulus closed the door and the two men were alone.
“O cryptic one,” said Marcus. “Reveal your face.”
The visitor threw back his hood and Marcus saw the broad and impassive face of Pompey the Magnus staring at him with animated eyes.
“Greetings,” said Marcus.
“Is your slave to be trusted, Cicero?” asked Pompey in a curiously pent voice.
“Yes.”
“I hear his breath on the threshold outside the door.”
“Yes.”
Pompey, who appeared out of breath and enormously disturbed, flung himself heavily into a chair. “I trust no one,” he said. “Order your slave to leave the door.”
Marcus hesitated. He looked long into the eyes of Pompey, the man for whom he felt no liking and who had always shown him a cold friendliness. Then Marcus rose and went to the door and dismissed Aulus, after asking him to send for his brother.
“I see I must make my visit short,” said Pompey. “I must be known by no one to have visited you tonight. Cicero, you are in danger of assassination.”
Marcus gave him the letter. “Did you send this?” he asked.
Pompey read the letter, and started. At length he laid it down and stared blankly before him, still breathing as if he had been running. “So,” he said. “You have another friend.”
“Caesar?”
Pompey shook his head. “No,” he said in a flat tone. “No, not Caesar.”
“Not Crassus then.”
Pompey was silent a moment, then he said, “It is quite true. Your death has been carefully plotted, and that is why I have come to you tonight. I do not wish to see you dead, for many reasons.”
“Catilina for one?”
“Catilina.”
Marcus sat back in his chair and the eyes of the two men held each other.
“You doubt this?” asked Pompey at last.
“No. I almost expected it.” Marcus held the letter in his hand and gazed at the writing. “I do not know why you have come to me, for we are not friends. But still, I must thank you.”
Pompey’s expression was suddenly unreadable. He leaned toward Marcus and said in a low voice, “I am married to Caesar’s daughter, that young girl. Nevertheless, I mistrust and fear him. He did not easily give his consent to your murder. In truth, he is distracted, and has left the city for his villa outside the walls.”
“Why did he consent?”
Pompey smiled darkly. “He was left no choice, by Catilina, who is not only mad and who not only hates you, but believes you stand in the way—”
“Of whom?”
Pompey did not reply immediately. Then he said, “Of all of us.”
“In what manner do I stand in your way?”
Pompey was silent. His huge and spraddled knees were bare under the cloak, but he wore military regalia. He rubbed his prominent lips with the back of his hand. “You do not know,” he said after several moments.
“Tell me,” said Marcus.
Pompey’s mouth twisted. He looked at the vaulted ceiling of the library. He began to speak as if to himself: “I never trusted any of them. I am by nature and calling a soldier. A soldier’s way is not the way of a Crassus or a Caesar. If power is to be seized then let it be seized openly in the way of brave men. Let it not be plotted, with hidden murder, and slyly, as a slave plots.”
Pompey dropped his hand and gave Marcus a deep and cynical smile. “Have you forgotten, or never known, the power Catilina holds over the rabble? He threatened us all, even the mighty Crassus, with his degenerates and thieves and murderers. We were to move—” He stopped. “After your death,” he added, drawing a deep gust of air.
“How were you to move, Pompey?”
Pompey stood up and made as if to turn away. Then he swung about and pressed his clenched fists down on Marcus’ table and stared at him.
“By murdering the newly elected Consuls and putting our friends in their places. By making Catilina, that mad and dangerous Cerberus, Consul of Rome. In the first week of Janus.”
Marcus stood up slowly, and trembled. He stood almost face to face with Pompey now and Pompey did not retreat. “Are they insane?” asked Marcus, incredulously.
“No. They—we—have waited long enough. For power.”
“Do they not fear the anger of the people of Rome?”
Pompey threw back his large head and laughed and his big teeth glittered in the lamplight. “Cicero, Cicero!” he exclaimed. “Are you so innocent? Are you a schoolboy still, as Catilina asserts? The people forget their heroes almost before their ashes are cold. Do you still hope, Cicero, that this Rome is the Rome of your fathers? I tell you, loved though you are, that you could be murdered tomorrow and a week from now the people would not even speak your name. We could seize power by assassination of the Consuls, and the people would be momentarily hysterical, then be content to let matters go on serenely—if we graciously permit them. Did Scaevola teach you to no avail? Always you suspected plots. Yet now, confronted by the most desperate plot against Rome you stare at me with disbelief.”
Marcus sat down and covered his face with his hands and Pompey watched him with derisive sympathy. The soldier said, “I came because I mistrust Caesar and fear for myself in the future if this miserable plot is successful. I came also because I honor you.”
Pompey put his hood over his eyes again. “I am a soldier. I leave the solution in your hands. Forget I visited you. Remember only your safety. And Rome.” He added the last as if in deep pain. A moment later the door closed after him and Marcus was alone.
When Quintus arrived his cloak was sprinkled with snowflakes and his robust face was red and he was brea
thless. He embraced his brother and cried, “You would not have sent for me at this hour of the night if there were no extremity.”
“True,” said Marcus. He asked, “How many trusted soldiers can you command?”
Quintus looked at him and the color left his face. “A legion,” he said, and wet his lips.
“I do not ask for a legion. I ask only for trusted soldiers.”
Quintus wrinkled his low brow and thought. Then he said, “I am greatly loved by my legion, which I command. However, I would trust only twenty men with my life. Or yours.”
He took his brother in his arms and said fiercely, “Tell me!”
At that very hour the patient snow was falling, like mercy, over the vast city. It fell on the bridges and temples and buildings and alleys and streets and roofs. It invaded the Trans-Tiber in a silent veil of whiteness, covering noxious areas with the pure breath of freshness. It fell over an abandoned quarry in an ominous section of the Trans-Tiber, which was used for rubbish and the gatherings of dangerous outlaws. The guards were strangely absent this night, though the pit of the quarry was lit by scores of smoking and flaming torches, wavering in the white gloom. They caught the fierce or exalted profiles of many mantled men, young, middle-aged or old, lighting up sockets of fierce eyes or the line of a grim lip, turning a hand ruddy, revealing suddenly bared teeth or a brown brow. The walls of the firelit quarry contained them, and steam rose from their damp woolen garments. Some of the fitfully illuminated faces were patrician; many were rude and savage and coarse. Above the quarry loomed the black and stormy sky.
Catilina stood on a great rock and surveyed the men below him, and he smiled. He appeared like a magnificent god on his natural platform, in his military garb, woolen red trousers, brown leather harness over a red tunic, a deep crimson cloak over his shoulders, his helmet lighted with many jewels which glowed and flashed in the torchlight. He kept his hand on his short sword. His hands sparkled with gems, as did his wristlets. His figure was tall and lean and graceful, his face, though he was a middle-aged man, had the fire and animation of a youth and his blue eyes seemed to possess a flame of their own.
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