The child was clad in a blue woolen tunic, for Helvia believed in wool even in the height of summer. The air, now that the breeze had fallen, was very warm, and little drops of sweat lay on Marcus’ forehead; the moisture had matted the fine hair into ringlets on the brow. Tullius thought of nobility of soul, of regality of spirit.
“Marcus,” said Tullius, and came into the open, and the boy turned and looked at him and gave him a smile that was truly dazzling. He ran to his father with a murmur of glee, and Lira turned her Fury’s head and compressed her old features grimly. “We were about to return to the house, Master,” she said in a forbidding voice. She began to struggle to her feet. Tullius looked at his son, who was embracing his legs, and he put his quiet hand on the child’s damp curls. He longed to be alone with his son and kiss him as no stalwart Roman should kiss a child, particularly a male child, and he wanted to press him to his narrow breast and pray for him silently as he held him.
And why not? he thought, as Lira swayed heavily toward him. He felt a rare anger and repugnance. He said, “It may be that the Lady Helvia needs your assistance, Lira. Leave my son with me for an hour longer.” He tried to make his voice stern and dismissing. Lira glowered at him, and sniffed loudly.
“It is time for his sleep,” she said, and put out her gnarled hand for the boy.
It was not often that Tullius asserted himself. He had found a precarious peace in avoiding combat and dissension in his house, even from childhood. He had always been surrounded by strong characters. But when he did offer opposition he succeeded, partly because the others were so astonished and partly because they saw something in the flash of his eye which made them suddenly respect him.
Tullius said, “I shall return him soon to his bed. I wish to be alone with my child for a little time. Go to your mistress, Lira.”
She did not give ground at once. The seams of her face became deeper and darker; her eyes peered from folds of old flesh with a gleam of pure malignancy. She folded her arms upon her sunken breast and eyed Tullius, and he brought up all his strength and kept his eyes on hers until she dropped it sullenly, and silently mouthed an imprecation. Then, without looking back at father or son, she stumped off, her garments catching on bush or low twig. She snatched them away with a gesture suggestive of what she yearned to do with Tullius, himself. He watched her go, smiling a little. Then he sat down on the warm grass and pulled his child into his lap and kissed his cheek and damp brow and neck, and held one little hand tightly.
The boy’s flesh was fragrant as young earth is fragrant in the spring; yet there was the spicy scent of the season on him also. He stroked his father’s face, and was delighted with caresses, for it was in his nature to love. He leaned back in his father’s arms to study his face with a sudden gravity, for he had intense sensibility. He poised his head as if listening to Tullius’ thoughts, and finding them somewhat sad.
Tullius embraced him again. My son, he thought. Where will you be, and what will you be, when you are a man? Will you flee the world as I have fled it, or will you challenge it? Above all, what will the world of men do to your spirit, which is now as a cup of clear water? Will they make your spirit turbid and murky, filled with the offal of their evil imaginings, as the Tiber is filled with offal? Will they taint it with their lies and their malices, as a well is tainted by the bodies of serpents and dead vermin? Will they make you as one of them, the adulterers and thieves, the prideless and the ungodly, the brutal and the unjust, the false and the traitors? Or will you be stronger than your father, and surmount them all, despising them not in silence as I have done, but with words like burning swords? Will you say to them that there is a Force that lives not in weapons but in the hearts and souls of righteous men, and cannot be overthrown? Will you tell them that power without law is chaos, and that Law does not come from men but from God? What will you tell them, my son?
The child appeared to be listening to the young father’s urgent and desperate thoughts, for he slowly raised his hand and touched Tullius’ cheek with the palm. Tullius could feel the littleness of the hand, but he also felt a strong warmth, a comforting, a promise. It is only my imagination, for he is still a babe, thought Tullius, whose eyes filled with unmanly tears, unworthy of a Roman. He cannot understand what I have asked him in my soul, yet he keeps his hand on my cheek like the hand of a father and not a child.
Tullius lifted his eyes to the sky and prayed. He prayed as the “old” Romans prayed, not for wealth or lustre for his child, not for fame and glory and the snapping of banners, not imperial power or lustful ambition. He prayed only that his son would be a man as the Romans once knew a man to be, just in all his ways, resolute in virtue, strong in patriotism, ardent in piety, courageous in all adversity, peaceful of temper but no secret server of wrong, protector of the weak, prudent in decisions, eager for justice, temperate and honorable.
Tullius offered his child to God, pleaded for mercy for him that he might be kept from dishonor and greed, cruelty and madness, that he avoid no battle but engage in it in the name of right, and that he fear no man ever, and fear nothing but that or him who can maim the soul. He prayed as fathers had prayed before, and was comforted.
CHAPTER THREE
When little Quintus Tullius Cicero, brother of Marcus and four years the latter’s junior, was born Helvia did not deliver her child easily as she had her older son. She was in travail for many hours, which made Lira look very knowing and caused her to nod her head wisely as though Juno, herself, the mother of children, had given her some secret information. “No doubt it is a maiden,” said the old father, who was afraid of women and therefore despised them. “No one but a woman could cause such misery even before her birth.” But the child, delivered when the redoubtable Helvia was barely on the edge of excruciating consciousness, was a boy.
He was much larger than Marcus had been at birth, much heartier and noisier, and he was handsome and looked exactly like his mother. He had her curling dark hair, her lusty coloring, her broadness of shoulder and plumpness of limbs. He had, from the moment of birth, a stentorian voice which he exercised constantly. He was very robust, in appearance, a miniature soldier, and the old father, who was disappointed in the reserved and gentle-mannered Marcus, rejoiced in him. “This is no epicene creature,” he said, holding his grandson in his arms and jolting him up and down, to the howling of the little one.
“It is a riotous animal,” said Lira. Tullius looked at his son and was immediately both in awe of him and intimidated. Tullius went back to his son, Marcus, and his books. The old father said, “He will be a Consul at the very least. He is worthy of his ancestors.” Lira, though solicitous of the child as her beloved mistress’ fruit, was not impressed by him. She saw him as a farmer, or as a mere soldier.
As for Helvia, she looked on her second son with delight, though she would have preferred a daughter. He was her image, even if he lacked her composure. Her relatives visited her, including her parents. Her mother swore that were it not for a certain masculine vigor the child could have been her daughter, Helvia, at birth. Quintus, roaring in his cradle, sucking prodigiously, and waving little fists and broad strong legs, was a marvel to his older brother. By the time Quintus was a year old the two were friends and companions, and Helvia, who approved of family spirit, was pleased. She did not feel any twinge of jealousy when Quintus appeared to prefer Marcus above others in the house, including herself. Quintus, toddling, followed Marcus everywhere and doted on him, laughed with joy to see him, and held out his sturdy arms for an embrace. “He is a pleasant little man,” said Tullius, who felt some jealousy.
When Tullius discovered his favorite artlessly offering his bulla to the tutelary gods of the household in behalf of his brother, the father of both decided that Marcus should have intenser education than he had been receiving at the hands of his male parent. Marcus had more than the ordinary sensitiveness to language and was picking up the doubtful vulgate of the slaves in spite of the purist training of his father.
It was also time for Marcus to learn Greek, the language of gentlemen. So Tullius journeyed to Antioch, in which city Tullius had learned of a Greek poet and scholar, Archias, and induced the teacher to return with him to the family island to teach his older son. The old father and Helvia were startled again, as they always were, when Tullius evinced independence and proceeded to accomplish acts without consulting others. Archias, who called Rome “the nation of grocers,” as did all his countrymen, was nevertheless enticed by the large fee offered by Tullius, and he was impressed by Tullius’ gentle manner and unworldliness and scholarly attainments. It would not be entirely a barbarian household, Archias thought, and the fee would enable him to buy prized books and the delicately depraved little figurines he loved, and the isolation of the island would be conducive to meditation. So Archias arrived to meet the distrust of the old father, the staring indifference of Helvia who was presently absorbed in the manipulation of stocks—having taken to business when it became evident that Tullius was not a particularly shrewd investor—and the antagonism of old Lira who could not bear that her little Marcus was to be shared by still another in the house.
Archias was at first dismayed by the simplicity of the household and its lack of ornamentation and its crude statues and its uninspired country meals. But introduced to rooms of his own in the new wing, close to Tullius who intended that the poet should edify him, too, and given honor, and lured by the amazing fee and the beautiful natural surroundings, he was soon content. Marcus’ perceptiveness and sweet nature, thought the poet, had not been exaggerated by a fond father. Nor was it always offered to a poet the opportunity to take a very youthful mind like Marcus’ and train it to lofty goals. Archias settled down on the island and conceived a deep attachment to his small pupil, an attachment which was to continue all the life of the poet.
Archias, like all Athenians, was quick of motion and speech in spite of his contemplative nature, and had a great sense of humor and an air of repose when he was teaching. He was also judicious and wise and intuitive. His protection against loneliness was his very young Cretan slave, Eunice, who was fair and blue-eyed like all her countrymen, and was pleasantly stupid, a virtue not to be despised by a poet. She attended her master and enhanced his meals in the kitchen under the frugal eye of the composed Helvia, and became one of Marcus’ most avid playmates, for she was but twelve. She was much taller than the short and slender Archias, and her golden head appeared over his dark sleek one like a miniature sun. Docile, and adoring Archias, who had fine dark features and glowing black eyes, she was soon the favorite even among the household slaves. She considered Helvia a noble lady, to be admired and imitated, and was immediately a pupil of Helvia’s in the art of weaving sturdy linen and wool garments, and in frugality. Eunice was a magnificent success, and Marcus was one day to write of her: “Though ignorant and unlettered and of a simple mind, her presence was a delight, so warm was it and so sincere and loving. There are many of our fine Roman ladies who could have emulated her to the satisfaction of their husbands.”
Marcus, as Tullius had told Archias, was indeed of a prodigious mind. He accepted Greek as if it were his native language. Archias’ kindly and humorous nature soon inspired the boy with affection, and Marcus early learned to appreciate his teacher’s subtleties. When he was six Marcus was writing poetry, which Archias considered one of the first attributes of a civilized man and one sadly lacking in Romans. The Greek and the old father were mortal enemies from the beginning, for Archias, so daintily depraved in thought and secluded act, and disinclined to much physical activity, had early dismissed the eldest Marcus as a mere farmer and a typical Roman. He could not, he would aver just to annoy the old father, himself tell a sheep from a goat, nor was he interested in crops except for the grape. Once he told young Marcus that the grape seed was the prophecy of the vine, the grapes themselves, and ultimately of the wine which would delight and soothe the soul and inspire it with wisdom beyond that ever known by an abstemious and sober man.
He was also an agnostic, a matter he prudently concealed in this pious household. But his intimations to young Marcus during the lessons were to teach the boy skepticism of all insistently stated opinions, though Archias wisely did not impair the boy’s natural piety and earnest devotion to God. Archias, it was, who introduced him to the Unknown God of the Greeks, and Marcus adored Him at his prayers.
“He does not live on Olympus,” said Archias, with a smile. “Nor does He live in Israel, though the Jews assert He does, with arms, when necessary.” Archias found the Unknown God easier to believe in than in the multitude of Eastern, Grecian, and Roman Gods. Obscure, hidden, but mighty, Lord of the Universes, omniscient and powerful, Creator of all beauty and wisdom, He appealed to the subtle Greek.
Seeing the little Quintus as he exactly was, the poet felt some annoyance at the love between the little brothers. How was it possible for such a one as Marcus, profound, searching, and perceptive, to love a small soldier who was as active as a cricket and as noisy as a crow? He discovered Marcus tutoring his brother in Greek. This did not touch Archias, who wondered at Marcus’ young patience and tenderness. The two little boys would train together in leaping and wrestling and discus-throwing and exercises with the spear and the bow. It annoyed Archias that Marcus appeared not to object too much to this sweaty business.
The more or less tranquil household soothed the innate irascibility of the civilized Greek. He found himself able to turn out cantos with which he was satisfied, and which he published in Rome. Quietude brought him some small fame, and he was gratified. He and Tullius became friends. He told himself that he had another pupil in the lonely young father, and out of compassion he sought Tullius’ company even though he preferred to be alone at night. But he would not be present at the family dining table. He had a horror of the smell of baked beans and fish dripping with oil and garlic and pasta smothered in grated strong cheese. He also had a horror of the household wine, and imported his own for his own secret palate.
“A civilized man is known for his sensitive appreciation of good food,” he would tell Marcus.
“Your son has character, noble Tullius,” Archias told the father. “It is firm but not dogmatic. It is tolerant, but not weak. It is tenacious but not stubborn or obstinate. In his soul he has set the highest standards, and the gods help those who will oppose virtue before him.”
So Archias delighted in his pupil, and wrote much poetry, and conversed with Tullius in the quiet dark evenings, and fondled his Eunice in ways which would have shocked Helvia and would have caused his dismissal had she known.
When Marcus was seven years old he wrote, “The best architecture arises when the architect raises his temples with consideration of how they will appear to the eye of God, and not how they will appear to the eye of man. Buildings created only in accord with the nature of man are gross. They reflect the urges of his body and not the urges of his soul.” Archias was happy over this small philosophy and congratulated himself for being an excellent teacher, though he pursed his lips amusedly at the mention of souls.
“The Greek gods are poetry,” said Archias one day to his pupil. “The Romans appropriated our gods, and renamed them. But they removed their poetry. Minerva is a bad-tempered shrew and her virginity astringent, but Pallas Athene is armed and noble wisdom and her virginity like marble in moonlight.”
Marcus always listened uneasily to any attack on Romans, however good-natured.
“Our gods have been perverted by man,” he said, “and given man’s temper by man. It was not always so in our history. Why must man eventually degrade even his gods?”
“It is man’s temper, as you have wisely said, my Marcus,” Archias agreed. “Only the Greeks have not done so. Perhaps this arises from innate wisdom, or perhaps it is because Greeks love poetry and let their gods alone. Man must not impudently dissect God, and make Him anthropomorphic. Socrates understood that, and that is why he was condemned by city fathers grown provincial and mean, and, in their h
earts, atheistic. It is the man unsure of his faith, and uncertain of the existence of the Godhead, who is the most intolerant.”
“You are not intolerant, my teacher,” said Marcus with his charming and mischievous smile.
“Never despise inconsistency. It is man’s best safeguard against tyranny. God’s Law”—and here Archias hesitated for a moment—“is believed, and probably rightly, to be immutable. But the laws of men can never be dogmatic or they become like insentient stone.”
“What is God’s Law?” asked Marcus.
Archias laughed. “I am no authority. The Jews believe they know; I spent two years in Israel. But it is not possible for man to know God’s Law, though the Jews say they are explained by one Moses, who delivered his people, with the crown jewels of the Pharaohs, from Egypt. The Jews, by the way, believed they were forced from Egypt because of their devotion to their God. I disbelieve that. I am of the opinion that the Jews, being clever and astute and wise and manipulating by nature, and great natural philosophers, became too powerful in Egypt in finance and politics and involved relationships. Nothing annoys a man so much as having a more subtle neighbor. He will tolerate vices and even emulate them. But to be asked to think enrages him.
“The Jews, incidentally, are imminently expecting a Savior. The Jews are a very mysterious people. They believe that man was originally perfect as God intended, and unacquainted with death and evil, but that by his own will he fell from perfection and into the power of evil and death. I find this very unbelievable and mystical. In any event, they expect their Savior to make clear to them the whole of God’s will with regard to mankind, and all His Law, so that never again can they go astray. It is written in their strange books, which they study unremittingly. They also believe that man’s soul is immortal, not to wander after death in pale shadowiness in some Plutonian underworld, but to be conveyed by the Savior, or the Messias, as they call Him, into bright and eternal Isles of Bliss. And the body, they say, will on the last day be joined to its soul and the whole apparatus delivered intact into their heaven. I found the conception very entertaining. Their God is not gay and beautiful as are our gods. He seems of a most unpleasant temper.”
A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 4
