The west became one arch of golden light, and the fragrance of the garden rose more intensely about Marcus as he sat on the stone seat and looked at the Acropolis. He was invariably both depressed and exalted at the vision, depressed that man was now so little and exalted that man had once been so great. What was the power of empire compared with this? If men remained stupid then all their bannered and shouting armies were but the senseless march of the jungles, all their laws would be inscribed in dust, and all their boast would be but the echo of beastly voices, and all their cities would be inevitably inhabited by the lizard and the owl, the wild ass and the snake, the silent rubble of fallen pride.
Daemon and god: man was a greater mystery than even the Acropolis of Athens.
Now all was scarlet and purple and silver over and within the city. Marcus did not feel the chill of evening. He was sunken in himself and his meditations. He started, therefore, when burly Quintus brought him newly arrived letters. “I am to be a father!” he shouted, and struck his breast with his clenched fist in the military manner. “Rejoice with me, Marcus!”
Marcus rose and embraced him and kissed his cheek. “Have you told Atticus?” he asked.
“No,” said Quintus, “he has not returned from the city, and his speculations.”
“Let us pray you will have a fine son,” said Marcus.
Quintus swaggered boyishly up and down the garden paths while Marcus watched him fondly. Quintus breathed deeply; he stared at the Acropolis but it was evident that he did not truly see it. He said, “My son will be a brave man, a man of Rome. I will teach him well.”
Marcus did not suggest that the coming child might be a girl. For a moment he was envious of his brother. Pomponia, the young wife, might be oppressive and inhibiting, but she loved her husband and he loved her, if he also feared her. He would always return to her arms, to be chided and admired, to be admonished and advised, to be enjoyed and cherished. What had he, Marcus, to return to in Rome? Law would endure without him and Helvia had her favorite son and soon she would be a grandmother. She also had her husband, wise and lonely child though he was. For the first time Marcus thought seriously of marriage. Surely, in Rome, there must be one woman who would love him above all others and keep his new house and supervise his servants and bear his children, who would be a joy to him. She would not be Livia. But she would be a beloved woman on this earth where Livia no longer dwelled. He was tired of the random woman whose embraces meant nothing, and whose bed gave him no real ease. He was tired of changing faces, no matter how lovely or intriguing. Casual love, or bought love, was no love at all. A man needed a woman who loved no one but him, whose arms were a shelter for his despondencies, whose smile was a cure for his melancholy, whose eyes darkened with compassion for his pains. There was, after all, no substitute for marriage.
“You have not read your own letters,” said Quintus. “There is a letter from our mother, and many others.”
Marcus opened his mother’s letter. It was full of common-sense, as usual. Helvia had visited Marcus’ various villas in the countryside and had even gone to Sicily to see his farm and order it. She did not particularly approve of the “luxurious new house” in Rome, but at least she was supervising the gardens and purchasing the furniture. She and Tullius had gone to the island for a few weeks. She missed her sons. She rejoiced, pointedly, with Quintus that his wife was about to bear him a child. She had reviewed Marcus’ speculations in the stock market and now advised the sale of some holdings which appeared precarious. The interest on moneys had risen in the banks, which was an occasion for gratification. Tullius, the father, had become less secluded; he often visited the city and he had acquired a few congenial friends, who had even given him an interest in games. The olive groves and vineyards which Marcus owned were bearing well and were being harvested. In short, matters were going excellently.
She wrote with a firmness that was most penetrating:
“I have long sought to have you look upon the Lady Terentia as your wife, for not only is she of a patrician family but is sister to Fabia, the Vestal Virgin, which augurs a divine blessing on the marriage of Terentia, and her husband. Terentia is possessed of a dowry of one hundred thousand sesterces, a not inconsiderable fortune even in the light of your own possessions, and is mistress of several houses in Rome, from which she obtains a respectable income, and a farm near Arpinum. She is most virtuous, and no scandal has attached itself to her name, and she is in all ways a desirable wife for all she is past the age of twenty-one. Her household accomplishments meet with my approval, for her family is truly Roman with all the virtues of the past. She is modest and pleasant and her intelligence would delight even you, Marcus. She is of an attractive countenance, and she has never dyed her hair which remains its natural brown. Though a shrewd woman of investments in the city, she still retains the old Roman aspect of retirement and gentle deportment and does not possess a sharp tongue, as does my daughter-in-law, Pomponia, sister of your dear friend, Atticus. It is true that she does not boast the regal beauty of her sister, the Vestal Virgin, who could have chosen among the noblest families in Rome for her husband, but beauty is often cursed by the jealous gods.”
Marcus said to his brother, “Do you know the Lady Terentia?”
“Hah,” said Quintus, who had been staring up at the Acropolis. He turned on his heel and looked at Marcus. “Her sister, Fabia, the Vestal Virgin, is of a most remarkable loveliness! When she passes in procession with her virgin sisters to the altar of Vesta the people bow more in awe before her face than before her divine condition. What glorious eyes, beaming like the moon! What magnificent hair, even if half-hidden by her veil! It is the color of gold. Her neck is like a column, her waist—”
“We have a poet,” said Marcus. “But we were not speaking of Fabia. I believe I mentioned the Lady Terentia. I surmise she is not so beautiful as Fabia.”
Quintus thought, puckering his lips and rubbing them with a blunt brown finger. “She is a friend of my Pomponia. She has visited our house. Her appearance does not come readily to my mind, but I recall that her voice was amiable but firm, her demeanor retiring and truly old Roman. Ah, wait! I remember her more clearly. She has brown hair and brown eyes and a pale complexion. I thought her an invalid but Pomponia declares her in excellent health. She speaks softly.”
“Brown hair, brown eyes, and a pale complexion,” said Marcus. “They could be the: attributes of a beautiful woman or a young Fury. It is no description at all.”
But Quintus was thinking seriously, and he shook his head once or twice. “Her appearance is pleasing; she is not lovely, but is of a mild countenance. You will recall that my Pomponia has a mild countenance, also, and a tongue like a viper.”
Marcus laughed. “Do you suspect that Terentia has such a tongue also?”
Quintus grinned. “I invariably suspect these soft-spoken women with downcast eyes and sweet manners and glances that prettily invite but promise nothing. I believe Terentia is very virtuous. How could it be otherwise with a sister who is a Vestal Virgin? Delightful Fabia—”
“It is not Fabia I am considering marrying,” said Marcus.
“You! Marrying!” cried Quintus in astonishment.
“I am not decrepit nor of a great age, Carissime. Nor am I a male Vestal Virgin. It would please our mother if I married Terentia.”
“This is a grave matter,” said Quintus, seating himself on the parapet that contained the garden. He eyed Marcus seriously. “One does not marry casually. When one enters upon marriage his whole life is changed, curtailed, ordered. There is no more freedom, no more frolicking, no more adventure. One, it is suggested, becomes circumvented.”
Marcus concealed his mirth. “You do not consider it a happy estate, and do not recommend it.”
Quintus glanced cautiously at the door of the house, then leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “There is not a husband, who, though possessed of a handsome and virtuous wife, often does not wish he had never laid eyes on her
!”
Marcus could no longer hide his smile. “Ah, traitor! I consider Pomponia adorable, and you the most fortunate of men! If Terentia resembles Pomponia—”
“She does,” said Quintus in a somewhat sad tone.
“Then, I will give the matter the most earnest thought. I am weary of having no intimate attachments. My new house on the Palatine needs a mistress.”
“Our mother is not extraordinarily old,” said Quintus, in a last heroic effort to save his brother from disaster. “She is but forty-four or forty-five. There are ladies in Rome who have had four or even six husbands at that age, and are still merry and vivacious and desirable. Our mother could be mistress of your house.”
“You are not encouraging.”
“There are times,” said Quintus, “when I envy you.” His short red tunic hardly covered his big thighs; he slapped one of them with the air of a tragic man.
When Marcus did not answer, Quintus said, “You are serious! I had hoped you were jesting.”
“No.”
Quintus sighed, as if accepting inexorable fate. “Then, marry. Terentia is as good as any.” He paused, and gave his brother a long sharp stare. “You have—no regrets?”
“Do you speak of Livia Curius?”
Marcus stood up, and supported the elbow of his broken arm with the palm of his right hand.
“I have not forgotten Livia. I can give no woman what I gave that maiden. My heart remains in Livia’s dead hands. But my life does not lie in them also. I am no longer a youth. It is true that at times my life seems a very weary thing to me, but a man has no choice but to live until the gods decree his death, and the Fates cut the thread of his existence.”
“You speak as an unhappy man speaks,” said Quintus with affectionate concern, and he put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Marcus looked at him with surprise.
“Unhappy? No, I do not think I am. I am not a child. If we are here for any purpose at all it is not happiness, which is the condition of little children.”
“There is no purpose,” said Quintus. “Or, if there is, it is not possible for man to know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Marcus and Quintus remained at the house of Atticus for six months. During that period Marcus studied at the School of Ptolemy. His voice restored to its old vigor, he took lessons in elocution and rhetoric from the famous Syrian, Demetrius. Antiochus of Ascalon was delighted to instruct him in philosophy. He had also inclined to the school of Epicurus, and was taught by Phaedrus and Zeno. Never, in Rome, had he dreamed of the full majesty and learning of the Academy. He had known of the Academy’s tremendous importance in the world and had long yearned to attend it. Still, it surpassed his expectations.
He wrote to his parents, “I had earned some fame in Rome with my oratory. But what a squeak and a squeal I really possessed in Rome compared with the eloquence of my noble teacher, Demetrius! His voice makes the air stir in grand periods; I swear that even the birds listen, enchanted. When he quotes Aristotle I feel that it is Aristotle speaking in accents that resemble shining marble, for they seem to gleam and glisten, visible to the dazzled eye.—How delightful it is to be a student again! Men should never cease from studying, from returning to those springs which so intoxicated their youth, for in books there is much wisdom and there is no end to what a man can acquire in knowledge. All surfeits but learning. All becomes stale and jaded that is of the body, but that which is of the mind and the spirit is never satisfied, never satiated, never exhausted. It is as if one possesses eternal youth, for one is always discovering and is always elated at some new treasure revealed to him. Every path is a pristine one; it has been touched by no foot before. Every portal opens on a new vista, never gazed on before that hour by another man. The words of Socrates or Plato mean something unique to each student, for he brings to them a unique mind and a novel soul. So must the Isles of the Blest be, never explored in full—horizonless, swept with winds that come from eternity.
“We go next to Asia Minor, and to Rhodes, for new studies when these are completed, if one can say with truth that study is ever completed. When I return, I will marry the Lady Terentia, for, as you have written, she is agreeable to the marriage. Embrace her for me, and induce her to give her final consent, and implore her sister, Fabia, for her divine intercession in our behalf.”
The winter in Athens was unusually mild. Only on a few occasions did snow fly. It was then succeeded by radiant skies and new warmth. Once or twice there were heavy and thunderous rains which filled the streets of the city with rushing floods. But it was not a winter like Roman winters. Marcus had no return of his rheumatism. His health quickened daily. His voice was stronger than he had ever known it. It rang with music and large power. His declamations had always been arresting. Now Quintus would urge him to recite poetry or some phrase from the Phaedo and would listen with a touching ecstasy. The soldier did not always understand. It was enough for him to hear Marcus’ voice soaring and commanding, spoken as if with no effort. It was like wine that is poured easily from a jeweled goblet.
When Helvia wrote that Pomponia had miscarried, Quintus was much grieved. He said, “It is the will of the gods. The soul of my child has ascended to bliss, for he had done no wrong. Who knows but it will be as the Indus say, that he will be born in another body given him by Pomponia and myself, or to better parents?”
It was Quintus who induced Marcus to learn much of the physical arts, which strengthened him even more. His arm had healed. For the first time he found pleasure in boxing and fencing and wrestling and running and leaping, though his slender form never became muscular. The sad mists which had enveloped his mind the last years in Rome lifted from his brain and there were moments when he must admit to himself, “I am happy! It is not the joy of the child or the youth. It is the joy of full maturity and tranquillity and acceptance.” He began to teach himself not to be as compromising as his nature leaned; he began to discover that prudence can sometimes be compliance, and that just anger should not be always restrained in the name of reason. The world had need of ruthless and even raging fire as well as the sweet voice of rationality and diplomacy. “I hope,” he said to Atticus a little ruefully, “that I will remember to be so dauntless when I return to Rome!”
A few days before he left Athens he had two visitors. The first, to his amazement, was Roscius, the actor, bearded and browned by Palestinian suns, but as graceful and as handsome as ever. Marcus hardly recognized this elegante who had assumed the swagger of a mature man, and he greeted him with delight and embraced him heartily. “Noë,” said Roscius, “wrote me you were in Athens, and I disembarked to visit you. Dear friend, how burly you are! You are a veritable gladiator.” He pinched Marcus’ enlarged biceps, which though harder, were not very notable even now. “And you have lost your backside, which sometimes would swell through your long tunic in a most distracting way,” the actor continued.
“You have not lost your own Apollonian figure,” said Marcus, “for all the excellent victuals of Jerusalem. I thought you had spent your time in the gates of the city with the wise men.”
“No. I enchanted the ladies. I was a vision in the theatres which the Romans were kind enough to build in that God-obsessed land. Judea is very effete; the younger Jews are now more Greek than the Greeks. It was not necessary,” continued Roscius with virtue, “to imitate the Greeks in everything. Did I tell you that Noë has written a new play for me?”
“He always does,” said Marcus. “But you will have to remove that beard, which you grew as a devout Jew.”
“Not so,” said Roscius. “I grew it because the play that scoundrel, Noë, has written concerns Job. You know of Job? A most dolorous man, most persecuted, defamed, reviled, and suffering. And a man of the most furious and affecting eloquence. He was just and virtuous, above all other men, yet God permitted Satan to afflict him in order to demonstrate to Satan that some men cannot be moved from their seat of probity and devotion and morality. The contest was very unfair.
Job was but a man, the mouse between God and evil. You would think they would not descend to the torment of so small a creature. I feel very strongly about Job; my heart burns with indignation and compassion for him. Do you think the Romans will like that play?”
“The contest between good and evil is not unknown, even to Romans,” said Marcus.
“I see you still possess your old stinging tongue,” said Roscius, with approval. “You know how the story of Job ends?”
“I believe God answered him with majestic questions,” said Marcus.
“Yes, yes. But what an answer! In Noë’s play, God does not answer at all. The questions Job hurled at Him remain unanswered, and the predicament of man still stands as an indictment against heaven. What do you think of it?”
“Aeschylus wrote something resembling that. I prefer the authentic version.”
They were sitting in the mild noonday on the terrace of Atticus’ house. Roscius was very splendid in silken robes and with a cloak of the softest fur. His noble head was the head of a heroic statue, enhanced by the brilliantly black and curling beard. He resembled a prophet. He considered Marcus’ words, then shook his head in denial. “God does not answer, except in riddles which no man can decipher. He is the original Sphinx. The old Jews disapproved of me. They uttered the great rolling words of God to Job. ‘Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the world? When all the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?” And so on. Job should have reminded God that indeed he was not there, but that the question was a non sequitur, and should not be asked of a bewildered and suffering man who was anguished with boils and had lost all that he held dear. If Job was small and blind and confused and knew no celestial matters—was that his crime, and for that should he be rebuked? Did not God create him so meagre and so without knowledge? If a man makes a wheel that is not round and true and with a weak hub that breaks at the first stress—shall that man curse that wheel and cast it into utter darkness and absolve himself of the blame?
A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 54
