“For your beloved sake,” said Julius, removing his crimson cloak and sitting down.
“For which you are greatly concerned.”
He was startled when Julius’ smile faded and the lively black eyes fixed themselves on him with genuine gravity. “Yes,” said Julius. “I do not wish you dead, or evil to occur to you, for all you prophesied evil for me.”
“There is someone who intends to murder me, then?”
“In these days, Carissime, many men wish many men dead.”
“Elliptical, as always,” said Marcus. “I shall not die until the gods decree it, so spare your anxiety.”
“These are dangerous days,” Julius said.
“And who has made these dangerous? Answer me, Julius. Who has made free Romans, proud of their freedom, proud of their invincible law, proud of Rome justice, afraid for their lives?”
Julius shrugged. “I did not make these days. Your mild eyes have a way of lighting up like a bonfire, and it is disconcerting to those who love you.”
“Such as yourself.”
“Such as myself.”
Marcus called for wine, and the two men drank in silence. Then Julius said, “I must send you some from my own cellars. It is not that you are poor. You are now comparatively rich, and prosperous, in spite of the taxes you deplore.”
“I save my money. Why did you come, Julius? It was not solely concern for me.”
Julius refilled his goblet, drank, made a grimace. He looked at Marcus. “I have discussed your letter with Sulla.”
“Naturally. I expected that.”
“Sulla, though a military man, wishes peace for Rome. She has been torn too long. And we have still rebellious allies, satellites, and enemies. It is necessary that we present to our fellow Romans, and to those abroad, an image of inflexible power and potency. You are endangering that. You are endangering your country.”
Marcus was not alarmed. “It is not I who am endangering my country. The fault lies elsewhere. And of what interest is it to me, as a Roman, what foreigners think of Rome? How long have we been considering their good opinion, which can move wantonly at any change of the wind?”
“You do not understand. I can only say that your defense of Servius will militate against the peace and tranquillity of Rome.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “How?”
“You know the populace?”
“But of what concern is my defense of Servius to the Roman mobs?”
“He is also a soldier.”
“Which Sulla has forgotten. He is also blind, and was crippled in defense of his country.”
“You are deliberately obtuse. Let us consider Servius. He is quite mad. One does not deplore patriotism. But these old soldiers, who have been deranged by battle and suffering, are often excessive, and their speech is wild. They rant. They cry despair; they cry ruin. They are extreme in their emotions. But the mob, easily inflamed, does not comprehend.”
“In honest words, you do not wish the mob to hear him speak and defend his country and ask that she return to dignity, and valor, and lawful integrity. You do not wish that the people hear his passionate exhortations. You are afraid of them.”
Julius was silent. His black eyes sparkled inimically.
“There are also his fellow soldiers, his legions, his officers. You do not desire that they hear Servius. The military is restive these days under Sulla, who has betrayed them.”
“That is treason.”
“If it is treason, condemn me, punish me.”
Julius’ mouth twisted. He thought, he is necessary to me. In many ways I love and admire this brave man.
“Is it treason for a man who loves his country to try to defend it in the person of Servius?” asked Marcus.
“You speak as if Rome were a mere weak province, a vulnerable nation, Marcus. She is not.”
“Then let her not be afraid of the truth, and Servius.”
Julius shook his head sadly. Then he said, “Marcus, we are willing to make extraordinary concessions. The whole city knows of Servius. There are already grumblings. We will return to him his full military honors, his fortune, his lands, and let him go quietly in peace.”
“With his name tarnished, and the name of his grandsons.”
“We shall give it out that Sulla out of his old love and his sorrow, has forgiven Servius, and will accord him mercy.”
“And the people will then acclaim Sulla for his majestic compassion, though he was cruelly offended, and Servius’ name will be dishonored forever.”
“What is a name?” asked Julius.
Marcus flamed into cold anger. “To you, Julius, it is nothing. To Servius it is the whole world. He welcomes the opportunity to defend himself, and Rome, before the Senate.”
“Does he not want, in his age, to be at peace?”
“An old soldier, torn indignantly to his heart, does not care for peace. He cares for honor, a word you do not know.”
“I am a sensible and pragmatic man. I move with the times. But you have thrust your feet in the dark mud of the past, and will not move.”
“The past,” said Marcus, “is also the present and the future. The nation that forgets that is doomed.”
Julius did not reply. Marcus gazed at him piercingly. “Sulla is afraid of Servius!”
Julius was still silent. “I have friends also, honorable, upright men. If I am murdered, then they will not keep silent. I have informed them all of Servius.”
“You threaten Sulla?”
“I threaten all tyrants.”
Julius stood up. He said, “We are prepared to offer you a magnificent sum, not for the betrayal of your client, but for your withdrawal. And we promise to free Servius, as I have said, let him go in peace with his restored fortune and lands.”
“I do not want Sulla’s money. Let him restore Servius’ name, and I will withdraw.”
“That is impossible.”
Julius turned to the door. “I knew you would be obdurate, for you are an obstinate man. I told Sulla so. So, I bear his invitation that you dine with him tonight so he may lay his own case before you.”
“If I refuse?”
“I should not recommend that,” said Julius in a soft and menacing voice. “May I recall something to you? You owe your brother’s life to Sulla, who cared for him tenderly as a son. Would it not be dishonorable to be ungrateful?”
Marcus’ face changed. “How subtle you are, Julius. And”—Marcus’ voice faltered—“if Quintus is made to suffer from my decision I will broadcast the news to the people. He would prefer to die in honor than in dishonor.”
“Honor!” cried Julius, struck at last. “It means different things to different men! What a fool you are, Marcus! Honor is the last refuge of the impotent.”
He strode to the door, then stood there, cold and implacable. “It is sunset. I order you to accompany me to Sulla’s house.”
*Roscius’ position at this time in Rome was similar to that enjoyed by a great actor, John Barrymore, in America. There is a statue in bronze of him in the Vatican Museum.
*Roscius, famous Roman actor, can truly be called the father of the modern theatre. All Greek and Roman theatres were free to the public, tickets given in lotteries. But Roscius was the first to introduce privately owned small theatres for which admissions were charged. This resulted in better and more distinguished presentations for more discriminating audiences, besides the general non-paying public.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They went to Sulla’s house, Marcus in his own litter, and Julius on a huge black horse and accompanied by three young officers, also on horseback. The last crimson stain of the sun outlined the crowded hills, ran like sanguine water over the roofs of the buildings. The air was crisp and sharp and cold, and Marcus kept the curtains of his litter closed. The horsemen clattered about him; he could hear the roar of the multitude in the streets, the rumble of cars and wagons and chariots, the shrill bursts of laughter, the even more shrill invectives.
Archias
had told him that he was, by nature, a politician. At first Marcus had laughed; he despised politics and politicians. But now it came to him that law was not enough, even the grandeur of Roman law.
Sulla’s large and beautiful house was warm and lamplit, tinkling with fountains and sweetly perfumed. There was a scent of fern in the air, and freshness. The polished columns glimmered. Marcus’ feet sank into thick and brilliant rugs. He was met in the atrium by Sulla, himself, politely cordial. He said, “Greetings, Cicero. I am pleased that you condescended to dine with me.”
He even smiled as he lightly embraced the younger man. “We are few,” he said. “We are only myself, Julius, Pompey, Crassus, Piso, and Curius. I prefer small dinners. Yes, there are ladies, also, some pleasant young actresses and singers and dancers, who have consented to be amongst us.”
“I am not arrayed becomingly,” said Marcus, “for I was pressed to come in only my woolen tunic, as you see.”
“Oh, we are very informal tonight,” said Sulla, who wore his favorite purple robe of wool, bordered with gold. He was as lean as Marcus remembered, and as brown, and his pale eyes were still terrible. Like a fond father, he led Marcus and Julius into the long dining hall. There a table had been spread with Oriental lace and adorned with bronze Alexandrian lamps whose perfumed oil emitted luxurious scents. Fine paintings on wood, and frescoes in mosaic, covered the marble walls. Silk and woolen draperies hid the windows and concentrated the warmth within. The other guests were waiting, Marcus’ old enemies, Piso of the fair face, malicious smile and golden head, the surly Curius, and Pompey prematurely named the Great by Sulla, his broad face impassive but friendly, and Crassus with his brown hair arranged in petals over his forehead. They were already reclining on soft divans about the table and drinking wine from beautiful Grecian goblets of gold and silver and sampling the gilded dishes of anchovies, pickled fish, olives, little hot pastries filled with meat and cheese, vinegared veal-heads, sausages in pungent sauce, and little British oysters floating in olive oil and spices. Between each divan was a chair, and each chair was occupied by a pretty girl in a brightly colored long robe, her arms and neck bare, her hair fantastically arranged.
Marcus deprecated the new fashion of reclining at meals, for he was an old Roman. He sat between Pompey and Julius. Sulla preferred a throne-like chair of gilded wood and ivory and ebony, cushioned in scarlet silk with gold tassels. He sat at the head of the table, in his unconscious military posture of straight shoulders and high head. Marcus dubiously sampled the delicacies on the table, decided they were intriguing, ate more, and drank a fine sweetened wine. Three female slaves with zithers and lutes, sitting on the floor in a corner began to play sentimental songs very softly, and one of them sang in a pleasant and mournful young voice.
The young men and the girls about Marcus chattered with vivacity. Piso and Curius ignored Marcus, and when they addressed Julius or Crassus they looked over or around Marcus as if he were an insensate object. His pale and slender cheeks began to burn angrily at this discourtesy. In, his turn he would wait to catch the eye of one of his enemies and then would look coldly and contemptuously in it, and shrug lightly. He was pleased to observe that this had a vexatious effect on the young aristocrats, whose eyes, despite their smiles, began to flash. In the meantime, conversation about the table was easy and gay, and the girls chattered, squealed in laughter, and steadily drank wine and licked their fingers with a delicate air.
Marcus had not known that Sulla had a passion for wanton actresses and singers and gayly lewd conversation. But Sulla was enjoying himself. He played with the cheeks, the hands, and the hair of the girls who sat on each side of him. They flattered him; they laid their pretty heads on his shoulder; they teased him; they bridled happily at his touches which were becoming less and less restrained as time passed. They laughed aloud when he bent his noble Roman head and kissed their necks and dimpled white shoulders.
No one spoke to Marcus. He waited until the dishes were removed to make way for the dinner, and then he said in a quieter moment, “I see that our dear friend, Catilina, is not here tonight.”
Pompey and Julius exchanged glances. Piso laughed maliciously; Curius scowled at Marcus’ effrontery in daring to speak the name of a great patrician. Sulla’s light eyes filled with amusement. He said, “No, he is enjoying the embraces of his bride tonight.”
“I thought,” said Marcus, “that he was mourning the murder of his wife.”
“Murder?” said Sulla.
“Does anyone dispute it?” asked Marcus.
“Dear friend,” said Julius, “You know this is libel, and we have witnesses.”
“Let Catilina sue me then,” said Marcus. “I have been investigating.” All eyes were on him silently now. He shrugged. “Is the cypress still standing at his door for Livia?”
No one answered him. Marcus wiped his hands elaborately on a linen napkin extended to him by a slave. He took his time. “Murder, in Rome, was once considered barbarian. Murder, in Rome, was once punished by death. But these are new days. Murder of one’s wife, even if done crudely as Livia’s murder was accomplished, apparently results in high honors, a rich second wife, and favor.”
“You are deliberately obnoxious,” said Julius, with a faint smile. “Proceed. You have our ears.”
“I am a lawyer,” said Marcus. “I do not bestow information without a fee.”
He looked fully at Piso and Curius. “If there is anyone who desires to dispute with me with his sword, I shall be glad to arrange a time and place.”
Julius laughed loudly, and struck Marcus on his arm. “What a jester is this!” he exclaimed.
“I thought we should have an amiable dinner,” said Sulla. “It seems we have a bull with us tonight, roaring through red nostrils.”
“He is the soul of elegance,” said Julius, nudging Marcus sharply in the ribs with his elbow. “My general, your wine must be potent.”
“Not as potent as my outrage,” said Marcus.
Slaves brought in the next courses, which consisted of a suckling pig, roasted, on a huge silver platter, broiled fishes, various vegetables and sauces, and small white breads rolled in linen cloth to retain their heat. More wine was poured. The musicians sang a livelier song.
“Let us discuss pleasanter matters,” said Sulla.
“I am a man who toils,” said Marcus. “I do not keep late hours in the modern fashion. I am here for a purpose, and that I know, lord. And the purpose, I assume, is my defense of Cato Servius the next week, before the Senate.”
Sulla raised his black eyebrows. He was no longer smiling. “I have a high regard for you, Cicero. It is not well for lawyers to make enemies. They are usually men of great discretion and prudence. It is not their fashion to indulge in extravagances, to make a public spectacle of their cases. Julius has already told you of our offer concerning Servius. Why are you stubborn?”
“You wish to disgrace his name, so that no man of valor and courage who cries out in behalf of his country will henceforth raise his voice, for such a man regards his name as sacred.”
Sulla spoke kindly. “He is not young, and he is sick, and has not long to live.” He lifted his hand. “You will speak of the dishonor with which his grandsons will have to live. Public dishonor, my dear young friend, is not the stigma it was once in Rome. Men in these days have short memories; they regard honor as old-fashioned and tedious. The grandsons will not suffer.”
“Servius will not forget, nor will his grandsons, reared to revere their honor more than their lives. I shall protect him from that suffering.”
“You will not succeed,” said Sulla.
“I shall try, with all my soul and all the law I know.”
Julius clapped with light derision and Piso and Curius laughed aloud.
“Heroic words!” said Julius.
“Worthy of a Ciceroni.” “Worthy of a Chick-pea,” said Curius in a hoarse voice.
“Worthy of a Roman,” said Marcus, “but then, who is here who und
erstands what that means?”
“I,” said Sulla, in a quiet voice, and the small uproar in the room subsided abruptly.
Marcus looked at him, startled. “Then you know, lord, that I must do as I must do. For the sake of Servius; for the sake of the dead soul of Rome.”
Sulla flung his knife and spoon from his hands with controlled violence. His dark face became sharp and lean with his anger. He leaned toward Marcus. “Answer me honestly now, Cicero, and answer me from your own soul, which seems impregnable and resolute.”
His bitter voice filled the room. He pointed a thin brown finger at Marcus, like an accuser. “Let us consider this Rome of ours, Cicero, this Rome of today and not of your grandfather’s yesterday. Let us consider the Senators, the red-sandaled Senators in their stately togas, the Senators with their soft litters, soft beds, and soft courtesans, the Senators of privilege and power and money, of rich estates within the walls of Rome, farms in the countryside, villas at Caprae and in Sicily, vast foreign and domestic investments—these Senators who lie in warm, perfumed baths or sleep under the oiled fingers of those who massage their corrupt bodies, and who bejewel themselves and their mistresses before repairing to orgies and banquets, to the theatre, to private exhibitions of shameless dancers, songsters, gladiators, wrestlers, actors—let us consider them!
“Once their forebears, from whom most inherited their seats, repaired to a rude wooden Senate Chamber on their bare feet, to indicate their humility before the power of their people and above all, before the power of the gods and eternal law. They sat, not in embroidered togas, on cushioned marble seats, but on benches of wood, homely fashioned, and their tunics were still stained by the innocent earth and simple labor. The Consul of the people was more than they. When they spoke, those old Senators, they spoke in the accents of the country; they spoke with manliness, learning, truth, justice, and pride. They were prudent; they distrusted all law that did not rise from the natural law, from the heart of the nation.
“Look upon their inheritors! Would our present Senators give up one yoke of their power, half their fortunes to replenish our bankrupt treasury, their vile and extravagant mistresses, the ambitions of their wives, their fawning clients, their idleness and lascivious pleasures, their multitudes of slaves and their rich houses, a measure of their investments, to save Rome and restore her to the stature of their fathers?”
A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 44
