“Not a light insult,” said Marcus in a dry and bitter voice. “Atticus, I will do what I can. But when governments are determined to defame, disgrace, and murder a hero they do so with impunity in these days. For, we are now ruled by men and not by law.”
“You do not think you can save Servius, then?”
“Have you not already implied that as an honest man he deserves death?”
To Marcus’ relief, when they entered the cold dank prison, they discovered that Captain Servius had been lodged in a comfortable room, warmed by a small stove, a room reserved for respected public men who had annoyed the government. Moreover, the prison guards did not surround Servius. He was guarded by ten of his devoted legionnaires, who served him with ferocious tenderness. Marcus considered this a good augury. But after he looked at the soldiers’ faces he understood that their country came first, even before their beloved captain. If he were convicted of treason they would doubtless weep, but they would sternly bow before what they considered the justice of Rome, which must not be questioned.
Cato Servius was a man about sixty. He was of a poor but patrician family, of the gens Cornelia. His wife had brought him land and a huge dowry, and a deep love. Now he was as poor again as he had been in his boyhood, and he had no wife, no love, no sons, no lands, no fortune. But he sat upright and with great dignity in his chair before the stove, in full uniform. The window of the plastered room was barred, and the iron door was barred. But a bearskin rug was on the stone floor, and the narrow cot was covered with neat warm blankets, and the table held a vessel of wine and two goblets and a basket of late fruit.
Servius turned his blind scarred face toward his visitors, who were silent with emotion, and he said in his short, irascible soldier’s voice, “Who has entered?”
One of the soldiers saluted, forgetting that Servius could not see him, and replied respectfully, “Your publisher, Atticus, my captain, and one Marcus Tullius Cicero, a lawyer.”
Servius grunted. He extended his right hand, all that remained to him, and said, “Greetings, Atticus. But I do not need a lawyer.”
“Dear Cato, you do indeed need a lawyer,” said Atticus, seating himself on the cot.
Servius shook his long white head. “Why should a soldier of Rome, a captain of Rome, a citizen of Rome, a man of a great name, who has done no wrong, need a lawyer? I have committed no crime. I laughed in the faces of those who read out a ridiculous list of offenses it is alleged I have committed against my country. Sulla, too, must be laughing now as he reads the letter I dictated to him this morning, and which was delivered by one of my men. In truth, I thought my release had come just now when you entered. Ah, Sulla is very busy these days. One understands that. But”—and the old soldier’s voice raised itself to a deep shout of outrage—“when he knows that his captain, his dear friend, has been imprisoned he will have the heads of those responsible!” He paused, and again confronted Atticus with his brave blind face, full of hauteur and umbrage. “He inherited this disgusting government of thieves, betrayers, liars and murderers. I do not agree—and this I have written—with the manner of his efforts to restore the Republic, and I have feared his dictatorship and have execrated it, but I know in my heart that Sulla detests it as I do and with as much passion, and he will dispense with it very soon.”
Atticus and Marcus exchanged glances.
The publisher said gently, “Cato, you do not believe all this. You will not let yourself realize that Sulla signed the order for your arrest, though I have seen that order myself, and have told you.”
The old captain fell silent. His dark and eagle countenance tightened; his withered lips, so fearless and proud, suddenly quivered. The eyeless sockets appeared to fill with water in the light of the gloomy day. Then he began to beat his bony knees with his clenched fist. He muttered, “I cannot believe. I dare not believe.”
“You must,” said Atticus. “While you did not mention Sulla by name in your book, he understood whom you meant. This is a strange and degenerate Rome, ruled by rascals and exigent men, and men without honor. They dare not let you live.”
“I do not wish to live in this Rome,” said Servius in a changed voice. He shook his head over and over. “I do not wish to live in a Rome no longer free, no longer the home of honorable and courageous men, no longer the seat of justice and law and pride.”
“You have forgotten,” said Atticus. “You have two young grandsons, the bearers of your name. Their fathers died for Rome. Will you leave to your grandsons shame and dishonor, the disgrace of a noble name? Will you let them face a brutal world with the stigma of a grandfather’s treason upon them, so that all doors will be barred to them forever, and their name anathema? They have no fortune now. They have no protector but you; they have no name but yours.”
The eagle countenance became as gray and still as death, and as wizened.
“Your name,” Atticus repeated. “That will live on, in infamy. Is that your legacy to your grandsons?”
Marcus spoke for the first time. “Lord, I am Cicero. But I am of the Helvii family, which you must know. A man does not live only for himself. He lives for his children and his children’s children, and he lives in them. If you resign yourself to death without an effort to defend yourself, you disgrace your name, and you dishonor the memory of your sons and the existence of their sons.”
One of the soldiers at the door looked at his captain in astonishment, as if realizing for the first time the enormity of this situation. Then he filled a goblet with wine and put it in the officer’s veined and only hand. Cato lifted the goblet to his lips, then with a gesture of revulsion he put it down on the table.
He said in a low, stern voice, “You have said I do not believe my own words, Atticus. That is true. I have beguiled myself with falsehoods.”
He put his hand over his eyes and groaned, “Oh, if only I had died before this day! If I had only died in battle!”
“Then,” said Atticus, “you would not have written your book. Does it mean nothing to you? Would you wish it had never been written?”
Servius did not speak for several moments. It was as if he had not heard. Then he dropped his hand, and lifted his fine head and his lined cheeks flushed with blood.
“No! I wrote it for the sake of my grandsons! I wrote it in the hope that enough good men would read it and would restore Rome for those children! For, I cannot face the thought that they will not live in liberty, as Romans, when I am dead.”
“Then,” said Marcus, “let us fight for Rome.”
“I have no eyes, and, therefore, I have no tears to shed for my country,” said Servius. He paused. Then he said, “Marcus Tullius Cicero. The name rings in my ears.”
“It was my grandfather’s also, lord.”
“I knew him well!” exclaimed Servius, and he stretched out his hand, and Marcus took it. “Tell me!” said Servius. “Can you restore my name, Cicero? My life is nothing to me, but my name is everything.”
Marcus hesitated. “It is possible I cannot save your life, lord. But I will, with the help of my patroness, Pallas Athene, who wore the helmet, the shield and the sword also, clear your name in Rome so that it is no longer dishonored.”
Servius nodded. Then his lips spread in a grim, military smile. “Your voice is like a trumpet, Cicero. It loves my heart. I have lost my eyes, but my ears serve me well. You will save my name, and that is all that matters.”
The young soldiers at the door looked at each other, and their faces were harsh with sudden anger.
Seeing this, Marcus had a quick memory of the old augur, Scaevola. When he and Atticus were without the door of the prison room, he turned and looked slowly from one soldier’s face to the other. He had to choose his words with delicacy. “General Sulla,” he said with deliberation, “is a great soldier, and certainly he rescued us from Cinna and Carbo, for which may the gods preserve his life. My own brother, Quintus Tullius Cicero, is one of his captains, and my brother was like a son to Sulla.
 
; “However,” said Marcus, as the young men watched him with intent expressions, “Sulla is not omnipresent. He has, perforce, to delegate authority and responsibility. He has to trust many men about him, and woe to him who has to give this trust! He must rely upon their integrity concerning all they lay before him, and if they are men without integrity, such as politicians and the opportunistic, not only does he suffer but his country, and honest soldiers with him.”
The soldiers listened to him in dark and scowling silence. After a few moments Marcus sighed. “Here is one who has given up his sons, his eyes, his left arm, to his beloved country. Here is one who commanded legions who loved him, and whom he regarded as his children. Here is one who never, by unmanliness or cowardice, disgraced Rome, whom we love. Yet, he lies in prison because of some unknown traitor’s falsehood, envy, or hatred! To what have the Roman legions come when such a day arrives? We have been ruled by murderers—until the event of Sulla.” (Here Marcus refused to meet Atticus’ ironic eye.)
Portentously, then, he gazed deeply into each pair of young and violent eyes, and slowly walked away down the stone arches like a man who carries a terrible burden too heavy for his strength. Atticus followed him.
“It is fortunate,” said Atticus, “that you did not remain long enough for those boys to ask you why you did not go at once to Sulla to tell him of the imprisonment of his beloved captain!”
“Tut,” said Marcus. “A lawyer tries to avoid embarrassing questions. The military mind is single. Do I not have a captain for a brother? There are times when I bless such minds, for they are incapable of duplicity, and above all they love their brothers-in-arms and their country.”
Atticus grasped his hand. “I cannot tell you of my gratitude, dear Marcus. Now he will fight as a soldier must. Do you think you can save him?”
“I doubt that they will dare to let him live, for such a hero cannot be silenced. But I hope to have his lands and fortune restored, and the honor of his name, for his grandsons.”
Marcus returned to his office and sat, frowning in thought. Then he wrote to Julius Caesar, whom he had not seen for many months:
“Greetings to the noble Julius Caesar from his friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero:
“I have, today, undertaken the defense against the State of one Captain Cato Servius, whose soldiers love him, and whose name is revered among the military, and who was brother-in-arms to General Sulla, and whose inconvenient death, or convenient, if you will, in the Mamertine, would cause the military much grief and set many indignant rumors afloat among soldiers.”
Marcus smiled darkly as he appended his love and compliments to Julius’ mother, Aurelia, and mentioned the amulet she had given him which he wore always. Then Marcus wrote a letter to Noë ben Joel, and sent him his copy of Servius’ book, which he implored Noë to read at once.
Upon reading the book, Noë thought for a long time. Then he went to Roscius’ villa, where he found his actor basking in the company of many admiring young ladies, and eating sweetmeats. “Hah,” said Noë, “have we not agreed, my charmer, that the sweetmeats are deleterious to one’s appearance? Have we not agreed to abandon them?”
“Have some,” said Roscius, pushing the silver bowl toward Noë. “You, not I, gave up sweetmeats. What do you want? Are you going to ask me to reduce the price of the rent on my theatre? No.”
Noë ate a sweetmeat, then another, then another. He smiled at the handsome Roman young ladies, and openly admired them. He said, “I have a matter to discuss with you.”
“That means money,” said Roscius, his violet eyes narrowing. “Again, no.”
“Not money,” said Noë. “Honor. Glory.”
“Doubtless,” said Roscius, with no belief at all. He looked at the girls. “Run away home, my pets. I have affairs to discuss with this thief.” He accompanied the ladies to their litters, swaggering and displaying all his beauty lavishly. He returned to Noë in the hall, and rubbed his hands over the warm stove, and again narrowed his eyes.
“You are up to tricks, you wily Jew,” he said.
“As you are a Jew, yourself, I accept that as a compliment,” said Noë.
“Then I withdraw it. What is it that is up your sleeve?”
“An opportunity that rarely comes to an actor in Rome. Were we in Greece the whole land would be at your feet, for Greeks appreciate artists. But actors are not held in the utmost esteem in this rude Rome, for Romans are intrinsically vulgar. We are both citizens of Rome but being honest men we know her faults. What is dearest to an artist’s heart, such as yours? Money, no.”
“Money, yes,” said Roscius, becoming more and more suspicious as Noë became more enthusiastic.
Noë waved this away. “You jest, certainly,” he said. “Would you refrain from acting if you received no money for it?”
Roscius chewed a stuffed fig, swallowed it, sucked its seeds from his teeth. He said, “Yes.”
“I do not believe you!” cried Noë, holding up his hands in horror.
“You are wasting my time. Tell me of your scheme, which I will immediately reject as too expensive—for me.”
“I am offering you glory and honor, dear Roscius. That is all I am offering.”
“I can believe that,” said Roscius.
“A mere mention that you will appear in a certain spot at a certain hour draws all Rome to that spot like flies are drawn to honey,” said Noë. “Men and youths rise up from the very stones of the street, as well as matrons and maidens.”
“Granted,” said Roscius. “What spectacle, in which you are invested, demands my appearance? It will cost you money.”
Noë sighed. “Let me continue. As I have said, artists have little true glory and honor in Rome. They are not considered the equal of base gladiators who sweat and grunt and bleed like stuck pigs in the arena. They are less than an absurd discus thrower. Who wants to throw discuses? But that is Rome for you! However, when an actor becomes a hero, even Romans bow before him.”
“That sounds very dangerous to me,” said Roscius. “Are you plotting my death?”
“I have considered it several times,” Noë admitted. “But I have too much invested in you. There is also my dear friend, Cicero, who owns part of you.”
Roscius wrinkled his silky black brows. “You put it crudely. Would you dare, in your beloved Jerusalem, to say to another Jew: ‘Such and such a man owns a certain part of you?’ That is against the Law—”
“I know all about the Law, which I doubt you do,” interrupted Noë. “Let me continue. I have decided to present you with an opportunity to be a Hero, in Rome, as well as a beloved actor, and Romans love heroes, and they place their names in history. Think of it, Roscius!”
“I will not perish of grief if that does not happen,” said the actor.
“They will cast statues in bronze of you, in your role as Prometheus. They will hail you as a hero on the very streets! You will be greater than Sulla.”
“You are mad,” said Roscius. But he listened with an actor’s profound attention while Noë spoke at length. He took Servius’ book in silence into his hands, and scanned a page or two, which surprised Noë who had believed him illiterate, an unusual state for a Jew.
Then, stirred and moved, his actor’s soul afire, he began to pace up and down the hall, and he was so enchanting in appearance that as Noë watched him he almost forgot why he was here. Then he stopped before Noë and glared at him.
“Sulla will, without doubt, have me murdered,” he said.
“Even Sulla would not dare to do that to the darling of Rome.”
“It is too dangerous.”
“Heroism is not bought with safety,” said Noë.
“I have not implied for a single moment that I yearn to be a hero. I prefer to continue to live.”
“I guarantee that you will live,” said Noë.
“Oh, and you swear it by your father’s head, do you?”
Noë paused. Then he said resolutely, “Yes. Can I say more?”
 
; “You have already said too much,” the actor said. “Does Cicero know of this fine theatrical idea of yours?”
“No. I was inspired by it myself.”
In the end, however, Roscius agreed. It was an opportunity an actor’s soul could not reject. And, as Roscius did not suggest a small token, such as a valuable jewel, in appreciation, Noë left him with a high heart.
Marcus, while this was taking place, was also writing a letter to his old friend and tutor, Archias, who had lately retired to a small villa just outside the gates of Rome, where he cultivated a grove of olive trees and kept a few sheep, and a large garden.
When the letter had been sent off with a messenger, Marcus began to outline his case. An hour before the wintry sunset Julius Caesar arrived, splendid and genial, and full of affection, and clad as a general in full uniform.
“Dear Marcus!” exclaimed Julius, as though they had parted those months ago in utmost felicity. “I have neglected you! Forgive me. You are looking in good health.”
“I have learned to endure,” said Marcus.
Julius smote him heartily on the shoulder and laughed aloud. “Those are the words of an old man, dear friend. The young celebrate life; only the aged endure.”
“I have given up celebrating in Rome,” said Marcus. “I take it you have received my letter and have come here to discuss it with me.”