Scaevola’s breathing was like a gushing wind in the library. He stared at Marcus’ bent head. He groaned like a defeated gladiator, who welcomed death.
“Bribes?’ asked Noë, uncertainly.
Scaevola laughed. “Not a penny. What is more valuable to a powerful scoundrel than money or bribes, however seductive? His public image of virtue.”
He waved his hand contemptuously to Marcus. “Here is a key. You will find a strongbox under my bed. What it contains is not only there. It is hidden away, far from Rome, in secret recesses not available to the keenest fox. In the meantime, my Noë, write on this papyrus the names of the Senators who owe your father money, and whom you have seen this morning. However—There are some whose crimes I do not know, myself. It is of no matter. Every notable politician and scoundrel, every powerful man, has secrets he would die to preserve. One has only to hint that one knows them. And they know Scaevola!”
When Marcus, moving like one stricken, but not mortally, returned with the box Scaevola regarded it with rich pleasure. He patted it paternally. “Here is my power, my reputation, all that makes Scaevola formidable, all that throws the evil men into a dance which would be the envy of Pan, himself.” He bent and kissed the box, smackingly.
He said, “When the wicked attack you, do not boldly front them and attack them honestly, believing that you have justice on your side. Discover their secrets.” He unlocked the brassbound box and contemplated the contents with delight. He then removed scrolls and studied one, first glancing at Noë’s list, then nodding happily.
“The first, Noë, and my Marcus. He is not only the grandfather of his grandson, but the father, also. He seduced his daughter when she was twelve years old. He poisoned her mother, who threatened to destroy him publicly. He married off the girl to a man without the ability to lie with a woman, and who prefers little boys. The Senator does not wish his beloved daughter to be polluted by another man; so, he arranged this marriage. The girl is exceedingly beautiful, and stupid, and under her father’s influence, for she adores him. The Senator is, at the present time, arranging to have his daughter divorce her husband in name, so he may return her to his house, there to shelter her shall we say paternally—and protect his grandson, who is also his son, for he loves the boy. It is not often,” said Scaevola with enjoyment, “that a besotted man can arrange matters so neatly and agreeably. We shall see.”
Scaevola was studying another scroll with satisfaction. “Ah, we have a rare rascal here! He had the noble and virtuous Drusus murdered. The people of Italy have not forgotten Drusus, whose assassin has never been apprehended. They would, even at this date, tear our fine Senator limb from limb for this.”
He plucked out still another scroll, over which he almost drooled. “My dear Senator! You shock this leathery old heart! You have seduced the young wives of four of your most devoted colleagues in the Senate! Tut, tut. A wise man does not seduce the wives of his friends, who could ruin him. Are there not other women in Rome? If your fellow Senators ever learn of this they will murder you, themselves, each pleading for an opportunity to bury their daggers in your carcass.”
He took up another. “Dear friend, you have had six wives, and not one produced a child for you, not even a daughter. But your loving friend Scaevola knows why. You are not capable. Five wives were ladies of family. They would never reveal their mortification and the insult to their womanhood. Yet you have two fine sons. Whence did you receive them, handsome friend? They are the children of your slave girls—who have long disappeared into the silence of death. They were begotten by male slaves, who no longer speak, either. It was necessary for you to have these sons, for your patrician name depends on their being, and also a great fortune. I do not wish to injure innocent children. It will be your choice if they are injured. Your nephew, whom you despise, will then inherit your seat in the Senate, and your fortune. And think of the laughter of Rome, which loves a joke.”
“But his wives divorced him. How then, does he explain these sons?”
“He took unto himself a sixth wife, a young girl of obscure but excellent and impoverished family. A very young girl. He threatened her that if she denied the first child was hers he would destroy her father. He threatened her again when the second was born. But, as women, even the most intimidated, have a habit of tattling under the proper circumstances, it was unfortunate that the very young sixth wife died at the birth of the second son. It was said she had a hemorrhage.”
“But the physician,” Marcus began, then stared at Scaevola as at a basilisk.
“It happened when our friend was alone with his little wife,” said Scaevola, in a tone of commiseration. “Oddly enough, is it not? that both children appeared to have been born so rapidly that the physician, when he was summoned, found only the little girl and a newborn babe in the bloody bed. Ah, the sadness of life!”
Noë sucked in his lips; Marcus swallowed dryly. He had known of these dossiers, that they existed. But he had not known what they were. He thought he could no longer endure the litany of these horrors, of these monstrous things. He made a motion to leave, but Scaevola impaled him with a fierce and malevolent eye. “I am doing this to purge you of your nonsense,” he said.
Scaevola continued in a rich and purring tone. Then finally he laid down the last scroll. Each had been more terrible than the one before. Scaevola clasped his hands over his belly and contentedly began to scratch his navel through his tunic. He surveyed the two pale young men with benevolence.
“I have brought these matters to the attention of the unfortunate Senators before,” he said. “On several occasions my house has been broken into. The Senators know that these dossiers are only copies. After my house had been attacked four times I let them know the discreet facts. Nor would they attempt to murder me, or my son. I have two friends who detest these Senators. They have my orders to deliver the facts to a public which still retains some loathing of crimes, in the event of my death or the death of my son, by violence.”
Noë, in a weak voice, said, “How did you obtain this information?”
Scaevola made a gesture of rubbing finger and thumb together. “Ah, what gold cannot do! And I have the best spies in Rome, whose names I shall not tell you. You have only to believe in the truth of my information.”
Marcus seized his head in his hands and cried, “To what Rome has fallen!”
“To what man has fallen, from the day he was created,” said Scaevola.
He summoned messengers, and he addressed a short and respectful letter to each Senator he had named. It reminded the Senator discreetly that he, Scaevola, still possessed his information. And it also urged the Senator, in the name of justice, to consult with his colleagues and have the charges removed against Joel ben Solomon, and the banker returned at once to his house. “Does not the passion for law still burn high in your breast, dearest friend?” Scaevola asked in his letters. “One knows of your devotion to law, especially this admiring pontifex maximus, who is honored to be one of your friends.”
To the Senators on which he had no information of a frightful kind, he merely wrote, “I am in possession of two of your secrets, which distresses me. I should like to confer with you about them, so that you, in your majesty and honor, can deny them. Scandal and libel should not be permitted to exist.”
Noë almost forgot his reason for being in this library as he considered. Then he said, “Has any Senator or notable man of affairs or politician ever challenged you, as you suggest in this letter?”
“Never,” said Scaevola, emphatically. “Because no man is innocent, and no powerful man is anything but guilty. Each of these Senators, on whom I have as yet no information—though I shall have, eventually—will scan his life thoroughly on receiving my letter, and will be fearfully alarmed and wonder what crime I have stumbled upon which he has committed. He will decide that it is the very worst.”
Noë now believed without doubt that Scaevola would rescue his father at once. He could bring himself to smile.
“It is not a pleasant thing to contemplate that justice must be brought about by such means,” he said.
“It should not be so,” said Marcus. “I should have listened to my grandfather with less boredom. He was the wisest of men. He believed,” the youth added with a sad smile, “that I could help rescue Rome and restore the rule of law and abolish the rule by men.” He looked at Scaevola fully. “I shall try.”
“Good,” said Scaevola, winking at Noë. “You will try. That is why I have often prophesied that you will not die peacefully in your bed, as evil men die.”
Suddenly he pulled himself upright in his chair and beamed upon Marcus. “I have it! You will have your miracle for your client, tomorrow! For, I shall be sitting near you and I shall look upon the faces of my dear friends, the Senators.”
“I should wish to win on the merits of my case,” said Marcus, with a bitterness in his tone that his teacher had never heard before.
Noë was deeply interested so Scaevola benevolently outlined the case to him. Noë said, “It is not unlike my father’s in many ways. But this man is but a humble farmer. Why is his case not tried before a local magistrate in a local court? Why is he brought before the Senate?”
“As I have explained to our innocent friend, Marcus, the government needs money. Therefore, above all crimes, it considers the crime of inability to pay taxes almost the worst of all. It is even worse, in their opinion, for a man to attempt to keep a portion of the fruit of his labors for the benefit of himself and his family. So the Senate wishes to make a public example of Marcus’ unfortunate client, for, you will understand, as matters go on and the government becomes more powerful it will need more money for its own evil purposes. It cannot be certain that its demands will be met if even a single man is permitted to keep what is his own, and for which he alone labored.”
Noë turned in his chair and studied his young friend. “I have been occupied lately, Marcus, and so have had no opportunity to tutor you as before. Stand up, then, and show me how you intend to present yourself to the Senate tomorrow.”
“I am interested,” said Scaevola, and looked benignly attentive. Marcus hesitated, embarrassed. Then he reminded himself that an advocate should be prepared to address any audience at any time without embarrassment, so he slowly rose and faced the cynical old lawyer and his watchful friend.
“Think, first,” said Scaevola, “of Joel ben Solomon. Never let him leave your mind tomorrow, as you address my dear friends, the Senators. Think of him now.”
Marcus’ slender shoulders straightened, his long neck became a heroic column, his face flushed with outrage and passion. He looked at his audience, and his eyes sparkled. Before he could say a word Noë applauded with enthusiasm, and Scaevola was delighted.
Noë pointed to Marcus’ legs. “But a longer tunic,” he said. “Your legs are not your most endearing feature, Marcus. Wear a robe to your insteps. It must be a faultless robe, with intimations of a marble toga. It must be fastened with a dignified pin, severe yet expensive. Your shoes must be white, white as your robe, to indicate unsullied justice—faced with unsullied justice.” Noë made an obscene grimace. “I have the very robe you need, voluminous, of the finest linen. Permit me to send it to you, out of my love for you.” He put his head on one side, critically. “A girdle, too, of finely wrought silver. I shall include it. And armlets of the same. Ah, and I have a ring of magnificence! The one touch that will heighten the aspect of austerity!”
“They know I am but the son of a poor knight, and of no great name,” said Marcus, with fresh embarrassment.
“Then, they will wonder who is your secret benefactor, your unknown but powerful client,” said Noë. “It will shake them.”
“Excellent!” cried Scaevola, enjoying himself.
Noë became warmer under this praise and with the thought that his father would soon be restored to his family. His actor’s soul brightened. He shone with enthusiasm. Never had he prepared an actor for such a role before. He leaped to his feet and circled Marcus, scrutinizing him from every point, lifting an elbow here, dropping a shoulder there, turning the chin in this direction, shaking his head, rectifying a fault. Scaevola watched, entranced. Before his eyes his somewhat stern and diffident pupil became a statue of avenging and youthful justice.
“Do not jerk your head too suddenly,” said Noë, absorbed in his work. “Let your head move nobly, heroically. When you reach the height of your plea, let your voice break and tremble with emotion. Be overcome with the thought that you are addressing men dedicated to law, and of the most scrupulous honor.”
Scaevola clapped his hands gleefully. “I shall enjoy this tomorrow!”
He ordered the best wine for his young friends and himself, and a dish of fine cheese and grapes and plums and olives from Israel, and bread as white and soft as silk. Marcus, thinking his mournful thoughts, was silent.
He thought, I am certain that I will win. But what is not certain is that I will win on the basis of justice—for justice has departed from Rome. How shall I be able to live with this knowledge, which came to me fully only today?
*Letter to Scaevola’s son.
*Letter to Scaevola’s son.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The house of the Ciceroni was quiet. Helvia, finally unable to struggle against her sense of justice, had persuaded Archias to seek another client in the city. “The gods alone know when your stipend in this house can be renewed,” she said. “Your presence here, good Archias, is only a painful reminder to me of our state, and of what we owe you.”
So Archias had departed for the house of a rich client who had several sons. He had done so reluctantly, but he honored the self-respect of the Lady Helvia. He also suspected that Helvia had finally lost patience with Tullius and was determined to force him to engage in life once more. So Tullius dragged himself painfully each morning from his cubiculum to teach his younger son. As Helvia had hoped, his health improved and he became interested, if only a little, in his son’s lessons.
Helvia, two years ago, had married the golden-haired Eunice to the freedman, Athos, who was overseer of the island near Arpinum. It was safe now, in a measure, to return to the island. Athos and Eunice were busily engaged in restoring the household and the farms.
Quintus, now seventeen years old, had been invested in the manly robe the year before. It became him. He was determined to be a soldier. Helvia was seeking a commission for him among the friends of the Helvii. In the meantime, Quintus with good humor, but also with impatience, studied Greek with his father and tried to understand philosophy. He considered neither necessary for a good Roman. But he could not explain this to his father, for he had, above all things, the kindest of hearts. The cantos of Homer left him bewildered, and dismayed. He smudged Tullius’ precious parchments with blunt and sweating fingers. His highly colored face, so like his mother’s, would become crimson with effort. His beautiful eyes would film with tears of vexation against himself for his inability to understand what his father described as the noblest of sagas. Though he admired Achilles as a soldier, he thought him somewhat of a fool not to have taken precautions concerning his vulnerable heel. He considered Paris an idiot to have plunged his country into ruin and fire because of a mere woman, however beautiful. But what could one have expected of a man who preferred to be a shepherd rather than a soldier? Priam, the silly old father, should have cut Helen’s throat immediately or have returned her to her lawful husband. Hector, the noble soldier, alone excited Quintus’ admiration.
There was, thought Quintus, absolutely no Roman logic in the Iliad. The Odyssey was little better. How could, in the light of reason, Ulysses have been seduced by Circe? It was surely not possible for rational men to be enticed out of their wits by a mere woman. Quintus, advised by his mother to look about him for a suitable wife, had not as yet seen a maiden who could cause him to be indifferent to a single meal.
Quintus, though he had long left Pilo’s school, still retained his friends who greatly admired and
loved him. Among them was Julius Caesar. They had assumed the manly robe together in the same ceremony. Julius thought Quintus to be not overly intelligent. But he had other virtues which Julius admired in others though he refrained from cultivating them in himself. Quintus might be simple, but he was loyal. Quintus’ conversations might sometimes be naïve, but he was never a liar. Quintus might lack much in the way of imagination, but Julius had long ago learned that it is best for ambitious men to surround themselves with followers who have few fantasies, for fantasies begot speculations and speculations could rise to experimentations and experimentations to direct action—all of which was dangerous to an ambitious man.
Quintus had told Julius that Marcus was about to undertake his first and solitary case himself, and, before the Senate. Julius considered this thoroughly, as he did all things. He was very fond of Marcus, though he often thought Marcus to be, at times, even more simple than his brother. Nevertheless, he was aware of Marcus’ intellect and honorable conduct and virtue, and his tendency to protect the helpless. These were not matters to be despised in potential followers. Ambitious men, more than any other, needed a façade of public nobility and integrity. Moreover, Julius suspected that Marcus represented a still potent if minor part of the population which had rejected corruption.
When Marcus, dejected and stern, returned home the night before the trial, overcome with the horror of what he had learned that day, Quintus greeted him with enthusiasm. His friend, Julius, would be present to applaud his dear friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero.
A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 22
