“Scaevola was no politician,” said Marcus, with incredulity. The centurion gave him a youthful smile which attempted to be very knowing. Then Marcus thought of something and he burst out laughing. He pictured himself arriving in the Forum escorted by Cotta and the soldiers carrying the eagles of Rome and the fasces, and banners. The magistrate had been obdurate in the matter of his client. But the magistrate was only a man and this magnificent escort would awe him.
The lawyer said to the soldier, “I must appear in behalf of my client. I accept the courtesy of the litter. And your escort, my good Cotta. Shall we go?”
So Marcus put on his crimson, fur-lined cloak—the first luxury he had ever permitted himself—and pulled the warm hood over his head. Escorted by Cotta, he walked through Scaevola’s house and the faces of the law students became blank with fear and astonishment. Marcus said to them, “I shall not be long, lads. Do not be remiss in your studies while I am absent. I am to dine with General Sulla.”
Syrius appeared at his elbow, his great black eyes fixed and bright. “Master, I must accompany you.”
“Certainly,” said Marcus, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder. He went outside into the whirling blur of the snow and entered the warm litter awaiting him. Four slaves in scarlet mantles lifted it, and soldiers surrounded it, and led by Cotta they all marched off, Syrius running behind.
As Marcus had suspected, the magistrate was awed; the officers of the court were awed. The magistrate’s supercilious voice became respectful. Marcus presented his case ably. The magistrate nodded soberly, over and over. Then he drew the papyrus to him, signed it with a flourish of his pen, and imprinted his seal upon it. “I do not know, noble Cicero, why you should have had difficulty with this case of yours.”
Marcus was disgusted. But he bowed to the magistrate and then to the officers of the court, and they bowed to him also. He marched out with his clanging escort.
The streets were sheathed in ice. The watery sun had come out behind dark clouds, and the ice glittered. Icicles hung from the white porticoes of buildings. The river ran blackly between its white banks. Beggars and other riffraff had built bonfires near every intersection and were warming themselves or roasting scraps of meat on the flames. The rushing throngs hurried swiftly through the streets, hooded heads bent low before the wind. Acrid smoke drifted everywhere. The crowded hills shone and sparkled under the new sun, the red roofs gleaming with moisture and snow. Now the sky appeared in small patches, brilliantly blue and brilliantly cold.
It was not far to Sulla’s walled house, not a great distance from the Palatine. Soldiers stood at the gates, and saluted. A ruffle of drums announced Marcus. I know now, he thought, what it is to be a potentate. The soldiers and the slaves marched over the slushy gravel of the path that led to the bronze door of Sulla’s large white house. The door opened and more soldiers appeared, fierce-faced youths, black of eye and eagle of countenance, the sun glinting on their armor. Marcus alighted. The centurion went before him with rigid steps, and they entered a marble hall, softly warm, with thick white columns, and scented as if with spring flowers. A fountain played musically in the atrium. Somewhere, behind closed doors, a young woman laughed merrily.
Then Marcus was escorted into a spacious room with a floor of black and white marble, and delightfully heated. The furniture was sparse but elegant, the tables of lemonwood and ebony inlaid with ivory. Here and there Persian rugs were scattered. A man sat at an immense table with carved marble legs. He lifted his head, frowning musingly when Marcus entered.
It was as if he had scarcely noticed Marcus’ intrusion, nor the centurion, nor the fearful but resolute black face of Syrius peeping over Cotta’s shoulder. Cotta saluted. “I have brought the lawyer, Marcus Tullius Cicero, at your command, my General,” said the soldier.
Marcus bowed. “I am honored, lord,” he said. “Greetings.”
“Oh,” said Sulla, frowning again. “Greetings,” he added, impatiently. He looked down at the mass of scrolls and papyrus and books on his table, then thrust them aside. He rubbed his eyes, and yawned briefly.
He was a man about fifty-six years old, lean, browned with wind and weather, leathery of face, with deep furrows about his thin straight mouth and across his brow. His cheeks were sunken, and this gave him a sullen and hungry appearance. He had very black eyebrows, as straight as a dagger over the palest and most terrible eyes Marcus had ever seen, eyes like ice and bitterly shining. His black hair was cropped short to his finely shaped skull, and his ears were pallid and close to his head. He had a firm and angular jaw, and broad almost skeletal shoulders. He wore a long tunic of purple wool, with a leather girdle which held his dagger. There were no armlets on his arms, no rings on his fingers. Despite his lack of military garb no one would have known him for anything else but a soldier. His voice was harsh and clipped.
He contemplated Marcus without notable curiosity or interest for several long moments. He saw the tall and slender figure in the crimson cloak and hood and the modest dark blue long tunic. He saw Marcus’ pale and studious face, the fine features, the large eyes, the mass of curling brown hair on the white forehead. Marcus returned his regard straightly, and Sulla thought: This is a brave man, for all he is only a civilian and a lawyer. The formidable soldier smiled a little, and sourly.
“I am pleased you have accepted an invitation to my frugal meal,” he said. He waved a dismissing hand at the centurion. “We shall dine alone, except for my other guest,” he said. He noticed Syrius for the first time. “Who is this slave?” he demanded. “He is not of my household.”
“He is mine, lord,” said Marcus. He paused, then continued: “He protects me against my enemies.”
Sulla raised those thick black brows of his. “Is it possible for a lawyer to have enemies?” he asked. He laughed, and the laugh was unpleasant. “Ah, I remember what rascals lawyers are! I had forgotten.” He said to Cotta, “Take the slave to the kitchens and let him be fed while I dine with his master.”
Cotta saluted, seized Syrius by his reluctant arm, and led him away. The door closed after them. Sulla said, “Seat yourself, Cicero. You must be content with a soldier’s meal, not served in a dining room, but at the base of my operations. You have never been a soldier in the field?”
“No, lord.” Marcus removed his cloak and placed it over a chair, then sat on it. “But my brother, Quintus Tullius Cicero, is a centurion. In Gaul.”
Sulla’s pale eyes fixed themselves on Marcus with a curious expression.
“In Gaul?” said Sulla.
“Yes, my lord. We have not had a letter from him for a long time. My parents and I are gravely distressed. It is possible that he is dead.”
“Death is always the companion of soldiers,” said Sulla, contemptuously.
Marcus looked up. “And it is the companion of all Romans,” he said.
“And particularly now?” said Sulla. To Marcus’ amazement he was actually smiling.
Marcus did not reply. Sulla picked up his pen and tapped the table as if in thought. “I am a man of blood and iron,” he said. “I am also a man of grim humor. And I honor a brave man.”
Marcus could not speak. He remembered that Sulla had been called half-lion and half-fox, and was a man of no mercy.
“I have brought peace and tranquillity and order to Rome, which she has not known for a long time,” said Sulla. “I have brought them to all Italy.”
The peace and tranquillity and order of slavery, thought Marcus. Sulla, watching him, was amused.
“I have heard much of you, Cicero,” he said. “I have had many letters from my dear friend, Scaevola. Before he was murdered.” Sulla’s voice became as cold and smooth as a stone. “Did he never speak of me to you?”
Marcus was shaken. “My mentor did not admire the military,” he said at last. “I recall that he said that you were preferable to Cinna, and Carbo. He was a man of many acid jests.”
Sulla smiled. “He was also very discreet. He was more valuab
le to me, his friend from our youth, than a legion of couriers. I owe him the largest debt of my life. And you, whom he loved, never suspected it!”
“No, lord.” Marcus felt suddenly weary. “And that was why he was murdered. I thought the assassins had destroyed him because he was a man of justice and honor, and Carbo could not endure such men.”
“I do not impugn either his justice or his honor,” said Sulla. “Who should know more about this than I, his friend? Once he wrote me, ‘When one is confronted with two evils, one should choose the lesser.’ He decided I was the lesser. He also knew I was inevitable. But more than anything else, he loved me.” He turned in his chair and looked long at the many banners that hung from the black and white marble walls. “He had no greater love, except for his country. Nor have I.”
Marcus had always thought that only men of profound justice and goodness and integrity Could love their country as she should be loved. Yet now he heard the tremor of genuine emotion in the voice of one who was not just, not good, and had only the fierce integrity of a soldier. I am naïve, he thought.
Sulla stared at him again with those pale eyes. “Your grandfather was my captain,” he said. “I was his subaltern. He was an ‘old’ Roman, and I honor his memory. He compromised with no one when he believed himself in the right. Rome is poorer for his death. She has been growing poorer with every year, as her heroes have died. But they were old-fashioned heroes. We live in a changing world, and they would not change.”
Marcus said, “Lord, the world is never static. It will be another world in another year. Yet today, on every hand, I hear, ‘We live now in a changing world!’ This is said as an excuse for excesses!”
“You are disputatious,” said Sulla. “That is your lawyer’s failing. Let us consider. Do not the people love grandiloquent slogans and jargons? If they shout today that this is a changing world shall we quiet their enthusiasm? They always believe that change means progress. We must not disillusion them.” His sharp white teeth flashed in a broader smile. “I admire you, Cicero. You are much like your grandfather. You, too, are a brave man.”
“You have said that before, lord,” Marcus replied with heat. “Is it so unusual for a man to be brave?”
“Most unusual,” said Sulla. “Even soldiers are not always brave.” He threw his pen from him. “I wished to know the pupil of Scaevola. I wished to meet an honest lawyer, and to study such a strange manifestation. Ah, my other guest has arrived.”
Listlessly, for now his weariness of spirit was very great, Marcus turned his head. Then he started with the utmost astonishment. For, entering easily, and clothed with splendor, was his old friend, Julius Caesar, smiling as gayly as the summer sun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marcus rose slowly, and Julius seized him by the upper arms in a buoyant embrace, and kissed his cheek affectionately. “My dear Marcus!” he exclaimed. “I never see you without joy and pleasure!”
“And I never see you without amazement,” said Marcus. Julius laughed heartily and struck him on his shoulder; he gave Marcus a sly wink.
Julius, though not of notable height, yet gave the impression of grandeur in his snowy toga, his golden armlets set with many gems, his jeweled and fringed golden Egyptian necklace, his glittering rings, his golden girdle and shoes. His gay black eyes, wanton and ancient, sparkled as if at a huge jest. His aspect, as always, was dissolute and depraved yet curiously buoyant and joyously youthful. He wound his arm through that of Marcus, and turned to Sulla. “Lord,” he said, “I have learned more wisdom from our Marcus than from all the tutors who afflicted me. He was my childhood mentor.”
“To no effect,” said Marcus. But, as usual, he could not help smiling at Julius. He added, “I did not expect to find you here.”
Julius laughed again, as though Marcus had uttered a tremendous witticism. “Do we not meet in the most extraordinary places? But here we are at home, you and I.”
Marcus thought of all the pungent and devastating things he should like to say, but restrained himself. All his suspicions about his dear friend returned to him. He had long ceased to expect Julius to have principles or loyalties or dedications. He knew Julius to be exigent. Yet Julius was the nephew of the man Sulla had hated most, Marius. Julius was a member of the populares party, which Sulla despised. Julius had proclaimed democracy in the most eloquent voice and Sulla detested democracy. They should have been the greatest of mortal enemies, the middle-aged soldier and the adroit and crafty young trickster, whose first allegiance had always been to himself, and his last also.
“I am not excessively surprised,” said Marcus, “to find you here. I should not be surprised to meet you on Olympus, or in Hades. You are always in the most unlikely spots.”
Julius assumed a very serious expression, but his eyes danced. “As you know, sweet friend, I am under the protection of the Vestal Virgins. Therefore, under their aegis of purity I can appear anywhere.” He looked at Sulla again and said, “Lord, is not our Marcus the noblest and gentlest of creatures, the wisest, the most temperate?”
Sulla’s pale eyes glinted. “He is noble, but I do not find him gentle nor overly temperate. There is a griffon under that modest manner; a lion peers through his eyes, and not a tender one.”
“Lord,” cried Julius, “how wisely you have put it! Marcus loves the mobs no more than do we. He is an aristocrat by nature, a fastidious man though a lawyer.” He struck Marcus on the shoulder again. “I have a matter of law to discuss with you before General Sulla.”
“I doubt you honor the law,” said Marcus. “Or, is this a new phase of your nature?”
“The law is that which exists—at a given time,” said Julius, laughing. His manner toward Sulla was that of a favorite son, indulged and tolerated.
“Your concept of law is very interesting,” said Marcus, coldly. “It is, however, a concept on which too many lawyers base their cases and their pleadings. And too many rascals.”
Julius was not insulted. He led Marcus back to his chair and without invitation took one for himself, facing Sulla. “We can always rely upon Marcus’ probity. He is no diplomat, therefore he is no liar. Did I not tell you so, lord?”
“Above all things,” said Sulla, “I prefer an honest man who does not change his opinions to suit the occasion, and whose word can be trusted.” He looked at Julius, and his harsh face was subtly amused. “Nevertheless, men like yourself, Julius, are valuable to men like me. So long as I am powerful you will be faithful, and devoted. I intend to remain powerful.”
Two slaves brought in a small table covered with a linen cloth. Gilt spoons and knives with sharp blades were arranged upon it. The three men watched in silence. The slaves went out and returned with trays which were loaded with plates, platters and vessels containing cold veal, cold fowl, cheese, rosy apples and grapes and citrons, clean brown bread, boiled onions and turnips, and wine. “Not a sumptuous feast,” said Sulla. “But then I am a soldier.” He poured wine, himself, into the three goblets. Then he spilled a little in libation. “To the Unknown God,” he said.
Marcus was unaffectedly amazed that Sulla, the mighty Roman, should honor One of whom the Greeks spoke, and not Jove or his patron, Mars. He poured a libation, himself. “To the Unknown God,” he murmured, and felt a deep spasm of pain and longing in himself.
But Julius, pouring his own libation, said, “To Jupiter, my patron.”
“Whose temple was destroyed,” said Sulla.
“But which you will rebuild, lord,” said Julius.
“Ah, yes,” said Sulla. “The populace was much disturbed that lightning struck the temple on the day I returned to Rome. They found a portent in it. The vulgar masses are always discovering portents, and a wise ruler listens to them. I have proclaimed that Jupiter wishes his temple to be far more magnificent than the one formerly consecrated to him, and that he has indicated his desires to me alone.” He did not even smile. “It shall be a glorious temple, as the father of the gods deserves. We shall have a rich
lottery to finance it, which will please the masses. It will please the frugal and sober, also, for they know how bankrupt our treasury is, and wish no more drain on it.”
Marcus ate little, and in silence. He wondered again, with growing alarm and confusion, why he had been brought here. He thought of Catilina. He listened to Julius’ jocular exchanges with the saturnine general with only a portion of his attention. He saw that Julius amused Sulla. Yet, Julius was hardly a buffoon. He was a graceful and intriguing young man, with a voice of marvelous expressiveness. He could be grave at one moment, and full of laughter the next.
I am here for a purpose, thought Marcus.
They had just finished their repast when the door opened and Pompey entered in his military garb. He saluted Sulla stiffly, smiled briefly at Julius, then turned to Marcus. “We have not met for a long time, Cicero,” he said. “I remember your miraculous success in the Senate, while defending a client accused of inability to pay his just taxes.”
Marcus looked at that broad and impassive face, the light gray eyes which betrayed nothing of the owner’s thoughts, the heavy, firm mouth. He glanced at the strong wide hands to see if Pompey wore the serpentine ring of which Scaevola had told him. The ring was not there. Pompey was regarding him seriously. “It should please you, Cicero,” he continued, “that law and order are now restored, for are you not a lawyer? At the last, law must rely upon military discipline to maintain and support it, and so you should be grateful.” He sat down and poured wine for himself into a goblet a slave brought to him.
Marcus’ face flushed. But before he could speak Pompey continued: “True law is impossible without militarism, therefore the army is more important even than law.”
I am being goaded, thought Marcus, but why I do not know. He said with quiet anger, “I wish to correct the prevailing prejudice that the work of the soldier is more important than the work of the lawmaker. Many men seek occasions for war in order to gratify their ambition, and the tendency is most conspicuous in men of strong character, especially if they have a genius and a passion’ for warfare. But if we weigh the matter well, we shall find that many civil transactions have surpassed in importance and celebrity the operations of war. Though the deeds of Themistocles are justly extolled, though his name is more illustrious than that of Solon, and though Salamis is cited as witness to the brilliant victory which eclipses the wisdom of Solon in founding the Areopagus, yet the work of the lawgiver must be reckoned not less glorious than that of the commander.”*