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.

“Julius?” said Marcus, a little diverted out of his misery. “When was Julius ever interested in justice?” But he smiled. Once Julius had teased him by calling him Endymion. “So,” had said Marcus, “I am a silvery poet, my soul seeking in vain for what can satisfy it?”

“You will never be satisfied,” Julius had said.

Marcus turned to him and studied him acutely. “Nor will you, dear young friend. Your desires are the highway to death.”

Julius was very superstitious. He shivered, made the sign of averting the evil eye. He did not like the glow between Marcus’ lashes. He said, insolently, “And are your desires the kind that lead to an honored old age and death in a peaceful bed?”

“I am a lawyer, Julius. I will never seek to control men.”

“You are also virtuous, and when did a virtuous man ever die tranquilly?”

It was such exchanges, mysterious to Quintus, that paradoxically nourished the real affection between Marcus and Julius.

Tonight, he proudly exhibited a small ivory and silver rod which Julius had sent to the house on the Carinae for Marcus to hold when he addressed the Senate. It was a rod of authority, lent to Marcus for the occasion. Marcus examined it with admiration and amusement. “It is very like Julius,” he said. Quintus was puzzled. “It does not resemble Julius in the least,” he said, baffled. Marcus laughed. “He could have presented this to me as a gift, and not as a loan. Was he consciously subtle in this, or unconsciously so?”

Quintus abandoned this unfruitful discussion. “A slave from the house of Joel ben Solomon brought a gift wrapped in white silk for you. It is in your cubiculum. There is also a letter from Noë.”

Marcus took a lamp from the atrium and carried it into his cubiculum. He opened the sealed letter. Noë had written: “Rejoice with us, dearest of friends! Scaevola is indeed powerful. When I reached home my father had already been delivered from prison! The Senate, on occasion, can act with dispatch. I will be present tomorrow to watch my friend, and bless him. You have my prayers.”

Marcus closed his eyes and thanked his patroness, Pallas Athene, for her mercy. Quintus had followed him and was inquisitive about the contents of the parcel. “Ask our mother to come here,” said Marcus. Quintus ran off to summon Helvia, who returned with her younger son. She was thirty-seven years old now, but there was only an occasional thread of gray in her abundant black curls, she was as calm, as plump and composed as ever and always, forever, an “old” Roman matron whom life could never overcome.

When Marcus unrolled the parcel she could not restrain her admiration for the pure white toga contained therein, the armlets, the shoes and the ring. She looked at Marcus proudly. She threw the toga over his coarse long tunic. She clasped the armlets on his arms and put the dazzling ring on his finger. She stood back to admire him. Quintus was overwhelmed with pleasure and pride. He showed his mother the delicate rod of authority which Julius had lent Marcus. “Marcus says it is very like Julius,” said Quintus, frowning in renewed bafflement.

Helvia laughed, understanding. With the intuition of a mother she knew that something had freshly unnerved her son. She said, watching him, “You have no fear that you will forget portions of your address?”

Marcus removed the ring of Noë from his finger, then held it in his hand and stared at it emptily as it shone and glittered in the lamplight. “No,” he said at last. “I am not going to give that address. What I say will be entirely different.”

She waited. But Marcus only silently refolded the toga and neatly covered it with the silk.

“Then,” she said, “you will write it tonight and memorize it. You must have quiet.”

“I shall let myself be moved by the power of Athene,” he said.

Helvia frowned. She considered that most imprudent, and very dangerous and uncertain. The gods did not always come when summoned, not even at the imploring of their most devoted servants.

“You think that wise, Marcus?”

He suddenly spread out his hands helplessly. “I do not know,” he confessed. He opened his small chest of treasures and took from it the round amulet Aurelia Caesar had given him so many years ago, and he hung it about his neck. Helvia thought, so, it is very serious, and he will not tell me.

That night Marcus followed his father into Tullius’ cubiculum. Tullius was both overjoyed and amazed, for it had been a very long time since Marcus had freely sought him out. Tullius sat in his plain chair, but Marcus stood before him.

Marcus said, in a low voice, “I have learned much today. I knew from the discourses of my grandfather, and yours, my father, that Rome had fallen far from her original innocence and republican glory and virtues. But not with all my flesh and blood and understanding; not with all my knowledge and my mind and acceptance. Today, I learned it all.”

“Tell me,” urged Tullius. But Marcus shook his head. “I cannot repeat the infamy. But this I can say: My address to the Senate tomorrow will be another than the one I wrote. However, I must have a starting point.” He sat down on the wooden stool near his father and looked into Tullius’ gentle brown eyes.

“You wish me to give you a starting point, Marcus?” asked the father, flushing with pride and pleasure. “You are to defend an honest farmer who cannot pay his taxes. The government has seized his small farm, has imprisoned him, and will sell his property and force him and his family into slavery.” Tullius shuddered. “You have already told me this.”

“What shall I say?” muttered Marcus in despair. “The Senate represents my country.”

“No!” cried Tullius, with sudden vehemence. “A government rarely represents the people! Love of country is often confused in simple minds with love of one’s government. They are rarely one; they are not synonymous. Yet,” he added, mournfully, “the evil men in government are compelled to show a public face of sympathy for the oppressed and must pretend, at all times, to be one with them, seeking to rectify the very wrong they have secretly committed.”

Marcus stood up so suddenly that the stool fell over. He cried out, “I have my starting point!”

He moved toward the curtain. Tullius said, wretchedly, “I have not helped you, though you are my son.”

Marcus came back to him, his eyes shining, and he bent and kissed his father’s cheek like a child. “You do not know how much you have helped me, dear Father!”

Tullius was dumfounded. But he placed his hands on Marcus’ shoulders and returned his kiss, with humility.

Helvia knelt before her son and tried to drape the toga majestically. “I am no handmaiden,” she said, wielding the ivory instrument with some clumsiness. “When I was a girl a man’s success did not wait on the way his toga was folded and arranged; it did not wait on foolish externals. If Cincinnatus appeared today before the Senate, as once he did, in his dusty rough tunic, with bare legs, his bare feet brown from the fields, the Senate would be outraged and would call for the guard to throw him out. He had, the Senate would declare, offended their august dignity. But now a man must dress like an actor and decorate himself like a woman with jewels, before he dares plead a simple case.”

“In those days,” said Marcus, “Senators represented the people. If they offended the people, they were removed or exiled. They did not inherit their seats. Nor did the retention of their seats depend upon base creatures and the passions of low and greedy men.”

Helvia nodded. She sat back on her plump heels to regard the toga. She also glanced up through her lashes at her son’s face. It was still very pale. But now the misery was less upon it. She was satisfied. She said, “Quintus’ great friend, that antic Julius, has procured a place for him to hear you. He will bring back the news. I wish we had a litter to carry you to the Forum. But we now have not even a simple chariot.” She studied Marcus again. “That ring is very theatrical. It does not become you.”

“It will become me today,” said Marcus, with some grimness.

“I have no doubt,” said Helvia.

But one of the few slaves left in the household now appeared in the doorway of the cubiculum, to announce, with proud excitement, that a rich litter was awaiting the noble Cicero, carried by four magnificent slaves wonderfully dressed. Marcus, forgetting that he was noble, and Helvia forgetting that she was a dignified matron, ran into the atrium and then to the strong oaken doors, which stood open to the hot late summer air. There, almost on the threshold, waited a litter, the curtains of fine blue wool embroidered in silver, the carriers arrayed like minor princes, their black faces shining like polished ebony.

“Noë!” exclaimed Marcus. The curtains parted and showed the smiling face of Noë ben Joel. Noë lifted himself out of the litter and came to embrace his friend and bow over the hand of Helvia. “Did you expect to walk to the Forum, like a peasant?” asked Noë, grasping Marcus’ arms in another embrace.

“Cincinnatus walked all the way to the Senate,” said Helvia, but she smiled.

“These are not the happy days of Cincinnatus, Lady,” said Noë. He looked at Marcus. “My father sends you his blessing, and his blessings are not to be despised, for he is a good man.”

When the young men were in the litter Noë said, taking his friend’s arm, “My father owes his life and reputation to you.” His voice trembled. “It was an impulse from God which sent me in search of you yesterday.”

“Your father owes me nothing,” said Marcus, with amazement. “It was Scaevola, and he alone, to whom you must direct your gratitude.”

Noë shook his head. “Who is my father? A banker, a broker, a man of no importance to such as Scaevola. To such a patrician my father is nothing. You will remember his metaphor about the use of a keen sword. He would not have used it for my father—but for you.”

“I?” cried Marcus. “He dislikes me only a little less than he does the other young lawyers.”

“You are wrong,” said Noë. “He loves you like a father, or a grandfather. It hurts, not offends, him that you are unworldly and have defenseless virtue and still believe that man is ultimately good. He fears for your peace of mind, your ultimate reason, your future, your fate. He would have you protect yourself with knowledge; he would have you close your open gates. Or, he fears, you will be destroyed.”

“No,” said Marcus, after a little thought. “He is a roaring bull from Spain, but he loves justice.”

“He knows it does not exist in Rome.”

Marcus said, “Tell me of your father. Did he suffer greatly?”

Noë replied: “He said that when he was in prison he prayed for God’s justice, but above all, that His will should be done.”

“So it was,” said Marcus, with some uneasiness.

“Without intention,” said Noë. Marcus looked at him sharply. Noë was frequently irreverent concerning the God of his fathers, and confessed to an enormous measure of doubt. He moved as if throwing a burden from his shoulders. He lifted aside a curtain to gaze with full light upon his friend. “You are marvelous,” he said. “When you stood on the threshold of your door you were like a hero, a statue, come to life. But, I was not surprised. What is this curious rod you hold so tightly?”

Marcus told him. Noë took it in his hand and examined it. “Julius Caesar,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I have no affairs with those who live on the Palatine.”

“You will hear of that young man in the future,” said Marcus. “I have come to believe it, for Rome today is his perfect environment.”

He pulled aside the curtain and stared out at the vehement faces and the press of bodies that surrounded the litter, at the many-colored tunics, at the violent hot sunlight on the sides of red and yellow and lemon-hued buildings, at the pylons with their winged heroes or gods or goddesses, at the surging stairways that went up and down, at the crowded porticoes of temples, at the throngs already hurrying to the theatres and the circuses. He was accustomed now to the uproar of the titanic city, the thunder of chariots, the screaming of multitudes of children, the shouts and whistles and oaths, and the shrill cries of pigeons. But now the noise appeared too acute to him. Had he been alone he would have covered his ears. He looked at the fierce blue of the sky, at the distant glitter of the Tiber, at the bridges massed with hurrying people. He smelled the pervasive stink of the giantess on her seven hills.

Noë looked at his pale profile and thought, My friend is greatly disturbed today, even more than he was yesterday.

Noë tried to divert him. “I have some gossip for you,” he said.

Marcus tried to smile. “You remind me of my young friend, Julius, who has every man’s name on his lips, and knows every man’s most vicious secret.”

Noë laughed. He said, “You will remember your famous duel with Catilina. I have heard he is with Sulla, in Asia.”

Marcus said with slow quietness, “I had hoped he was dead.”

“Unfortunately, no. The spear and the sword do not impale themselves in such as he. This frequently urges me to believe in the old Jewish story of Lucifer, who protects his own, a method I highly recommend to the Almighty, Who seems less conscientious in these matters. I understand that Catilina is one of Sulla’s favorite officers. If Sulla ever returns to Rome—and he cannot be worse than this Cinna who afflicts us now—the Catilina will be in a fine position under his general. It is unfortunate.”

“I have wished to kill him many times,” said Marcus. “There are moments that I regret that I did not.”

His white face flushed with hatred.

“But you spared him, and so acquired a reputation, which is not to be disdained. It is believed, as you know, that you could not bring yourself to kill an unarmed man, or that you spared him out of magnanimity. Either is excellent for a reputation.”

“His—wife?” asked Marcus.

“She is certainly not with her husband on maneuvers in Asia! So, she must be in Rome.”

“Then she is in Rome,” said Marcus, and all at once his sense of futility and exhaustion lessened. He knew that there was no hope for him, that Livia was forever lost. But the thought that she looked upon this very sky on which he looked, that he might even see her face in some temple, lifted his heart. He wanted to know that all was well with her.

The litter descended toward the Forum. Here the crowds were thicker and noisier. Litters carrying other lawyers moved rapidly toward the Basilica of Justice. Marcus’ breath came faster, and his hand gripped that lent rod of authority. He fumbled for the amulet under his tunic. The kingly ring on his finger flashed with a thousand lights.

Now they were in the Forum, entering down the steep slope of the Sacred Way. It was all familiar to Marcus, but he looked on it today with new eyes as though he had never seen it before. For today he was part of the Forum, and it was his arena of ordeal.

Here was all vast and colorful and uproarious confusion under the brilliant sky. Markets, temples, basilicas, porticoes, government buildings, and arches crowded together in the urban structures of red and citron and brown and pale yellow and white and gray; walls of brick and mortar and stone crushed furiously on each side of the road as if wishing to surge upon it and inundate it. Banks and brokerage houses teemed together in arches, shouldering one or two small theatres whose porticoes were even now seething with those in search of entertainment. As the great Forum lay in a hollow, the air sweltered with the stink of latrines, oil, incense, human sweat, animal offal, perfumes, dust, and heated stone. The markets were a clamor; bureaucrats with grave faces strove for an air of menacing dignity in their togas, but were often thrown from their feet by the sheer excited mass of fellow Romans, bent on business in the offices or counting houses or Senate or temples or shops. Chariots churned and lunged amidst a turmoil of litters and people on foot; horses screamed, wheels hammered, whips cracked, guards, attempting to control the turbulent traffic, waved wands or staffs, and strove to keep on foot. At times, they had to leap for a spot on the branching stairways, to avoid being kicked by a horse or trampled by the throngs.

Romans, having lost Republican simplicity, now tried to outdo each other in the violence of the color of their tunics, long and short. There was not a color nor a tint nor a hue which did not flare in the seering sunlight, from scarlet and crimson and blue to yellow and white and rose and green and orange. It was like a thousand rainbows gone mad and whirling and hurrying and rushing and leaping on the road and in the alleys between buildings. And above it all spread the hills of Rome, glaring in the light, jumbled with the high broken mass of multitudinous buildings, and all streaming with countless people. The incredible noise stunned the ear, drowned out an individual voice and the dim patter of indolent fountains before the temples.

Noë eyed the impassable mob dubiously. The Senate stood at a distance, tall, severe, straight-lined, of yellowish brick. It was as high as it was long, with thin windows of clear Alexandrian glass. It was fronted by several white stone steps leading to four stone pillars guarding the entrance. More than any other building in the Forum the Senate Chamber informed the eye that here was a nation not of poets and artists, but engineers, scientists and businessmen and soldiers, vigorously materialistic and bustling and energetic and ambitious. It was a nation of people alleged to grow rapturous over Grecian art and beauty and philosophy, but in its soul it regarded these things as somewhat effeminate and best left to elegant gentlemen whose thoughts did not encompass large and precise designs for a world order, precisely governed, and realistic in all its plans.

While only lawyers and advocates and those necessary for the conduct of law were permitted within the Senate Chamber, it was usual for lawyers who had tried cases previously that day, or were about to try cases, to stand near or within the entrance of the chamber surrounded by clients and well-wishers and paid applauders and friends. A few, but very few, like the famous pontifex maximus, Scaevola, could even bring their own chairs on which to sit, basking in the midst of their entourages, uttering witticisms or wisdoms, sometimes enjoying sweetmeats from little silver boxes. Those who could not get inside sat in their chairs with small awnings against the sun held over their heads by slaves. Therefore, the noise outside was far greater than within the dignified precincts of the Senate Chamber itself.

Scaevola, held in such terror by the venal men among the Senators, sat to the left of the entrance, just inside, sprawled in his chair, his admirers clustered thickly about him. Among them were Julius Caesar, Quintus (who had raced so fast to the Forum that he had passed Noë’s litter), Archias, Marcus’ former tutor and now a famous personage in Rome because of his published poetry, several strange youths, and a mass of admirers, fledgling lawyers and old lawyers, pupils and devoted friends. His entourage was far larger than the entourages of other lawyers, almost as distinguished as himself, and there was a constant migration of men from the circles of others to that of Scaevola. One could always be sure of a bitter and acid witticism from the lips of the formidable old man, who in his dress despised dignity but possessed it in his person, whose great bald head shone like a moon.

Marcus knew that Scaevola was not there today, personally, to “use his sword to move a pebble.” Nevertheless, he was joyous to see him. He announced his business to the guards at the entrance, then hastened within with Noë, and went at once to his old teacher. Scaevola was sprawled in his chair, at ease, scratching at the large mole on his cheek, which, because it sprouted black hairs, resembled a spider. His entourage was laughing heartily at some joke. They all turned to stare at Marcus and Noë as at intruders. Scaevola regarded his pupil with those amazingly small but vividly blue eyes of his, and smiled faintly, showing his long yellow teeth.

“Greetings, Lord,” said Marcus, formally, bowing.

“Greetings, Marcus,” said Scaevola. He studied the young man. “We are splendidly arrayed this day. I did not recognize you.”

“Greetings, Lord,” said Noë, bowing also.

Scaevola inclined his head without reply. He resumed his study of Marcus. “No,” he said, “I should not have recognized you. The Senate will think you a patrician.” He spoke with satire. But Quintus, standing beside Julius Caesar, beamed proudly upon his brother.

Archias said, “It is a proud occasion for me, my dear Marcus,” and embraced his former student with deep affection.

The mass about Scaevola stared curiously at the young lawyer. Many eyes were respectful.

Then Julius said, “Dear Marcus, I have invoked Mars in your behalf.”

“I am not about to fight a battle,” said Marcus, unable to keep from smiling at that mischievous and attractive young face.

“Are you not?” said the young man with impudence.

“This Julius,” said Scaevola, with a wave of his fat hand. “His uncle was the great Marius, now—eh, unfortunately?—dead. What will happen to him and his family when Sulla returns, as he most surely will?”

Julius had a beguiling voice. “Do you think my family, Master, places all its money on one chariot in the races—or all its influence?” He was thin, not as tall as Marcus, and gave the impression of intense vivacity. He turned to the watchful youth beside him, who was very handsome and who had alert gray eyes of a peculiar luminescence. “Permit me, Marcus, to present my friend, Gnaeus Pompey (Pompeius). His father is a dear friend of Sulla’s,” he winked with good temper. “We are like brothers. Speaking in confidence, Pompey fought with Sulla, also.”

“Aha,” said Scaevola. He moved his massive shoulders in slight laughter.

Pompey bowed to Marcus, who was his own age. “I pray you all success, Marcus Tullius Cicero,” he said, gravely. “He who is a friend of Julius is a friend of mine.”

“Always make as many friends as possible,” said Scaevola. “Then, in an emergency, if you have a score of friends, you can count on one. Sometimes.”

“I have many more than a score of friends,” said Julius, raising his voice above the clamor about them within the portico of the Senate, and without. “I am devoted to the human race.” He spoke in a serious voice, and with a serious expression, but his black eyes danced.

Marcus had been gazing at the young Pompey, and he could not tell whether or not he liked the young man’s appearance. He was no nonentity, though he wore no insignia which could identify him. From Julius’ air of patronage Marcus came to the conclusion that Pompey was plebeian. Yet his dress, a simple white tunic bordered with the Greek key in crimson, was not coarse.

“I am here,” said Scaevola, “because I have concluded some cases before the Senate, and because I have a number more at noon.”

So, thought Marcus, he is now making it plain to me and to the others that he will give me no assistance. “Should you win,” said Scaevola, with a supreme air of neutrality, “I shall lead the applause, however.” He scratched the mole again, not taking his eyes from Marcus. “You are not nervous? You have memorized your address fully?”

“I am not using the one you have heard,” said Marcus, bending to speak in his teacher’s ear. Scaevola’s mighty head jerked backward, and he stared up into the young man’s face and despite himself his eyes showed sharp concern.

“No? And your first case? This is folly. You will ruin it all in confusion.”

“I think not. I hope not,” said Marcus.

Julius, who always heard everything, said, “Who can listen to Marcus’ musical and compelling voice, touched both with hauteur and majestic humility, and not be moved?”

Archias deftly rearranged a fold that fell from Marcus’ shoulder. He said, “One is moved, most of all, by his passionate sincerity and his belief in ultimate justice. One can question that innocence, but one must respect it for what it is.”

But Scaevola, for all his air of neutrality, was disturbed more than any of those present could guess. Because he was disturbed, he was angry at Marcus.

“Take your place,” he said abruptly, waving Marcus on to the end of a line of lawyers waiting to be called. There were four before him, and he joined them. He was taller than any; his long neck lifted his well-formed if somewhat small head; the sunlight from the open doors behind him gilded the back of his head, which rippled with soft brown hair. It gave his profile, with its long nose—and because of that profile’s pallor—the aspect of a statue. His shoulders were too narrow, but the heavy folds of the toga draped them gracefully. Once he turned a little, and the sunlight behind him struck on the ball of his eye, showing its mysterious and changing colors. He will do, thought Scaevola, and though he did not believe in the gods at all he angrily invoked several. Would nothing, he reflected, ever change that serene and petrified brow to one plowed with wrinkles? Would the years—if he survived—remove that glow of light in his eye? What a thing it is, thought Scaevola, with irascible pity, to observe a man of principle in these days! It is like coming upon sunlit Apollo when one expected dark Pan with his smells, his dancing hoofs, his goatish legs, and his maddening pipes.

There were only thirty Senators present today. It had alarmed Scaevola that a few of them—if only a few—were men of integrity and honor, with no blemish on their public or personal lives. The Senators knew that the pontifex maximus was there; the evil ones among them would be uncertain concerning Marcus, wondering if Scaevola’s hidden sword guarded him. The Senators of integrity would be indifferent.

Moreover, the Senator Curius was present, a most evil man, the father of Marcus’ old enemy who was a friend of Lucius Sergius Catilina. Curius would remember the story of Marcus’ defeat of Lucius; he was a proud as well as a vicious man, and was closely attached to the Catilinii, and was a relative of Livia. Out of spite alone—for vicious men in high positions were notorious for spite—he would be hostile to Marcus first because he was a son of an obscure knight who had not even been born in Rome and second because of Lucius.

Scaevola turned to Noë, who was standing at a little distance watching Marcus closely. Scaevola beckoned him to his side, and peremptorily waved away a number of clients, friends, and admirers, indicating that he wished to discuss a private subject. Noë bent over him. Scaevola said, “Your father has returned to the bosom of his loving family. Does he know how it was done?”

“The Almighty and merciful God delivered him,” said Noë.

“Ha,” said Scaevola, shaking his head. “You have not disillusioned him?”

“He would only then repeat his belief in the mercy of an Almighty God, who uses His creatures to establish His will.”

“Ha,” said Scaevola, again.

“He believes in the honor of Rome,” said Noë, winking. “He is proud that he is a Roman citizen, that his son is so, and that three of his sons-in-law are also Roman citizens.”

Scaevola sighed. “Nevertheless, my dear Noë, he and his wife, your mother, must fly Rome at once and return to their beloved Jerusalem. It will be fatal for them to remain here. I may die tonight, and who knows if my son will have the courage to use what I have used?”

“The old story, again,” said Noë, frowning with distress.

“The Jews are a wise and ancient race,” said Scaevola. “Therefore, they have prudently concerned themselves with assets which can be removed with expedition and at a moment’s notice.”

“My father,” said Noë, “frequently quotes the old Hebrew saying that an ungrateful son will bite the edge of the table. I am his ungrateful son, according to him.”

“Gods,” said Scaevola, impatiently. “How can I endure any longer these innocent ones? I care not how you do it, Noë, but your parents must flee Rome almost at once.”

“Will they be safer there?”

“Yes. Your father’s presence in Rome is a reminder to these scoundrels of the infamy of their lives, which I had brought to their attention. Your father is an old man; he may have a convenient failure of the heart, or an accident, or a slave could poison him, or he could fall down a flight of stairs in his offices, or a serpent, crawling into his cubiculum could attack him.”

He irritably waited to see Noë’s expression change to one of horror. But Noë’s face was only thoughtful and alarmed.

“I will study this matter,” said Noë. “It must be expeditious?”

“Yes. Ha. Our Marcus is now second in line. Does he not look magnificent, arrayed like this?”

Noë, after a quick glance at Marcus, bowed his head, covering it Unobtrusively with a part of his toga. He had not prayed sincerely for years. He found himself imploring God with fervor.

“He is now first!” cried Julius Caesar, with excitement.

“My noble brother,” said Quintus, and softly clapped his hands.

Marcus had begun to tremble in the last moments; his sweating hand clutched Julius’ ivory rod. A streak of moisture ran down his right cheek. Light fell from the high windows; huge though the chamber was the heat was frightful. The immensely high roof was painted white and was of wood smoothly joined, and bore a design of carved squares in which a decoration like a rose had been gilded. The effect was calm and monumental. The walls, too, were of wood, laid over the brick, and these also were painted in purest white ornamented with lines and scrolls of gold. The floor glimmered like a lake, for it was composed of elaborate mosaics laid in swirling patterns of white, gold, blue, and purple. Oval niches, tall and with backgrounds of mosaic, and guarded by slender white columns, appeared at intervals along the walls, and in these niches stood beautifully executed statues of heroes and gods, mostly purloined from Greece. Before each statue was a narrow altar on which incense burned, filling the heated air with thin blue coils of smoke and intensifying the heat with odors. At the end of the Senate Chamber was a high stone platform on which stood a huge marble chair, cushioned in velvet. Here the Consul sat in state. He was a small dark man with a face resembling a gloomy ape, but his eyes glittered with intelligence and an irascibility worse than Scaevola’s. His white toga was wrinkled; his scarlet shoes appeared to annoy his feet.

Three broad marble steps, like podiums, stood shallowly along two sides of the chamber, and on these sat the comparatively few Senators who had appeared today, formidable in their white robes, golden girdles and armlets, and ornamented scarlet shoes. They sat with weary negligence, their chairs at different angles. It was apparent that they were bored and hot and impatient. They chatted indolently together, and yawned.

In the center of the floor stood Marcus’ manacled client, Persus, and his more lightly chained young and weeping wife, and his little children, also with chains on their wrists.

Marcus did not at first see his wretched clients. He was looking at the Senators, and his heart quailed. One of the Senators, he saw with alarm, was regarding him very closely and with a tight and vindictive expression, as if already exulting in Marcus’ approaching defeat. He scrutinized the patrician with sudden attention. His face was familiar, yet he was certain he had never seen him before. Then, with another lunge of the heart, he saw that the Senator bore a remarkable likeness to Curius the younger, and he knew this was Senator Curius, the father.

He directed his eyes to his clients, who were all gazing at him beseechingly, their tear-wet white faces lighting up at the sight of their supposed deliverer. It was their abject suffering, the chains upon them, their helplessness before tyranny, their slight and emaciated bodies, their wide and stricken eyes, which made him momentarily forget the Senators and even Senator Curius. He went at once to the side of Persus, and laid his hand gently on the prisoner’s shoulder. “Be comforted and of hope,” he said, and despised himself for his words. For he did not believe in them, himself.

The aedile was droning in a bored voice, “Prisoner, one Persus, plebeian and small farmer outside the gates of Rome, and his wife, Maia, and his two children, a boy of ten, a female of six years. The charge is failure to pay just taxes levied upon Persus by the authority and law of the Roman Republic, and to have evaded those taxes justly levied, to the scandal and hurt of his countrymen, and in defiance of the majesty of Rome. The farm of Persus has already been seized in part payment of the just taxes, and the slaves also, three of which he possessed. His household goods and cattle have also been seized. Nevertheless, the debt is less than half paid. The prisoner is guilty of all charges.”

He was an insignificant man, and he mimicked his ennui-saturated lords obsequiously. He flicked the scroll from which he had been reading with a contemptuous finger and paused, and looked at the lofty ceiling.

“The lawyer. Surely there is a lawyer,” said one of the Senators, who had a face like a sharp coin and was of a distinguished appearance.

“One,” said the aedile, peering at his scroll as if he were having difficulty in deciphering so unworthy a name, “Marcus Tullius Cicero, son of an obscure knight, born in Arpinum.” He paused to let this ridiculous fact impress itself on the Senators. He added reluctantly, “He is the son of the Lady Helvia of the noble Helvii family, and student of the pontifex maximus, Scaevola.”

“His qualifications are accepted,” said the old Senator.

“I crave your pardon, Senator Servius,” said Senator Curius in an acid voice, as thin and poisonous as vitriol. “Is it indicated that this—this advocate—is a citizen of Rome?”

The question, of course, was superfluous, and the Senator knew it. Senator Servius looked at his younger colleague haughtily, and said with vexation, “Certainly! Who can plead before us who is not?”

Curius wishes to humiliate me, thought Marcus.

“Cicero,” repeated Senator Curius with the slight inflection that made the name absurd. “Chick-pea. It is extraordinary.”

“When we consider the lowliness of all our ancestors, who founded Rome, then it is most extraordinary that we sit here at all,” said Senator Servius, and Marcus knew at once that the old worn man was no friend of Curius, and he took some heart. Scaevola had taught him that it was necessary for a lawyer first to establish sympathy with at least one of the judges.

In turn the Senators saw a very young man, tall and too slender, with too long a neck and with long and narrow hands. His face had much virility, though it was tight with anxiety. His eyes were beautiful. His brown and waving hair clustered about his pale cheeks. His dress, the Senators observed, was dignified and rich and there was a costly ring upon his left hand, and he held a rod of authority in his hand richly chased in bright silver. His shoes were as white as snow. Above all, his brow was noble.

Then they saw his resolute expression, the carved firmness of his lips. Senator Servius leaned forward in his chair the better to observe him. This movement seemed friendly to Marcus and he smiled. Instantly his face was charming, tender, almost dazzling with a light of its own. He did not know the value of his smile.

So once was I, thought the old Senator, Servius. But it is I no more. So was my son, who died in the Social War, and who believed in man’s inherent nobility. It is always innocence which dies, and it is always evil which prevails.

Nevertheless, the Senator was an honest man and celebrated law as strictly as did Marcus.

The aedile said to Marcus, hardly glancing at him, “What is your plea, Master?”

“Not guilty of any crime against Rome,” said Marcus.

The Senators stirred in umbrage. The crowd in and without the door raised a buzz of voices. A guard quieted them sternly. The prisoner and his wife and children wept; the little girl, in her coarse tunic, raised a tremulous cry and tried to reach her mother and could not.

“Not guilty of a proved crime?” demanded Servius. He scowled at the scroll in his hand.

“He is not.”

“The law is specific,” said Curius, with a gesture of disgust which indicated the baseness of the advocate. “Does this farmer owe taxes or not? He does. Does the law state that in this event his goods and his properties shall be seized in satisfaction of the debt? It does. Does it also say that if the goods and properties are not sufficient he and his family shall be sold into slavery for further satisfaction? It does. It is the law.”

“Yet, this Cicero would declare he is not guilty!”

“It is the law,” said Servius. He was a little sorry for Marcus, but also irritated. “Do you wish to reject the law, Cicero? Have you no respect for it?”

“Lord,” said Marcus, in a fervent voice which rang through the chamber, “there is no one more devoted to honorable law than I, no, not in all of Rome! For men without law are animals, and nations without it fall into anarchy. I bow before the Twelve Tables of Roman Law. No one serves them with more profundity and pride and solicitude. And so I say my client is innocent.”

Servius made a grimace, while the other Senators smiled at the young man’s presumption.

“The law concerning your client exists,” said Servius. “Therefore, according to what you have said you must respect this law also.”

“I respect just law,” said Marcus, and now his heart felt as if it were about to burst. “I respect the laws of Rome, which were founded on justice, patriotism, fearlessness of spirit, a proper regard for liberty, and charity and manhood. But I respect no evil law.”

Servius frowned. “Nevertheless, no matter your opinion, Cicero, this is law. It is truth. Truth is that which exists, and this law exists.”

He had a fondness for syllogisms. He added:

“Truth is that which exists.

This law exists,

Therefore, this law is truth.”

Again, he was sorry for Marcus. He considered the case concluded. He glanced at the Consul in his chair, waiting for the signal. Marcus held up his hand.

“Please, Lord, let me add one thing. You have made a valid syllogism. But validity is not always truth, as you know. Let me give you another, which is not only valid but true:

“A reality is that which exists.

Evil exists,

Therefore evil is a reality.”

“It is true that evil exists. It exists as objectively and as fully as does good. It is at least as powerful as virtue, and in many cases it is more powerful, for there are more evil men than there are virtuous.

“But who, if he is a man of probity, will hurry to embrace evil because, in philosophy and in fact, it exists, has reality and has its measure of truth?”

His fine voice, youthfully sonorous, soared through the chamber, and all were silent, even the crowds within and without the portals. Scaevola nudged Noë with his elbow and smiled slyly.

The attention of the Senators was fully caught. The venal ones glanced uneasily at the distant Scaevola and wondered how much he had told his pupil.

Marcus resumed, his large eyes flashing like pale gold: “Pestilence exists, therefore it has verity. Do we hasten, therefore, to throw ourselves into pestilential circumstances and contagion, because of the true existence of the terror? For again, there are evil truths, and there are excellent truths. We sedulously avoid the one, with regard for our very lives and our spirits, and we embrace the other which makes us fully men, and preserves us as a nation.

“We hasten to eliminate pestilence. Therefore, we should hasten to eliminate evil laws. The evil of this law, under which my client was seized, is an old one, more than half-forgotten, and found not very long ago in some dusty archives.”

“Do you wish to abolish taxes, on which our nation subsists and which cannot subsist without them?” demanded Curius with contempt, and in a rising voice of passion.

“No,” said Marcus, with a calm that contrasted with the other’s fury. “Permit me to recall to you why that law was promulgated in the very beginning. It was to prevent the people of the infant Republic from falling into loose and easy debt, and abandoning responsibility. It was to teach them thrift and sobriety, the sanctity of the given word. Without these an individual perishes. Governments also so perish.”

He paused, and looked slowly from one Senator’s interested face to the other. His stern eyes came to rest on Senator Curius.

“It was the intention of that law to offer a warning not only to profligate citizens but to profligate governments. For, is it not the foundation of Roman law that the government is not more than the people? If the government is guilty of criminal acts is it not the duty of a people to restrain it and punish it, as if it were a lawless individual? So it is written; so it is truth. A body of powerful men sitting in government are no less guilty than a single man of crimes common to them both, but in the case of government the crime is greater and more heinous, for it strikes down the walls of a city and lays it open to the enemy.”

“Gods!” groaned Scaevola.

“Romans,” said Marcus, and now his face was high and flushed with his own passion, “have always taxed themselves from the first days of the Republic, for good taxes are necessary for survival. But for what were these taxes invented? To pay for soldiers to protect us from enemies without our walls. To pay for the guards within the city. To establish courts of justice; to pay the stipends of the lawgivers, the Senate, the tribunes, the Consuls. To build convenient roads and temples. For the maintenance of sewers, the raising of aqueducts to bring us the blessing of pure water. To create a department of sanitation to guard the people’s health. To impose a tariff on nations who deal with us—and that tariff has served as well.” He smiled charmingly again.

Then suddenly his face changed and was full of high and heroic anger.

“But the law was not passed—and it fell into obscurity because Romans obeyed that law even while not knowing it was a written one—for the purpose of foreign adventures; not to extract a man’s industrious substance to support the deliberately idle, the worthless and the abandoned and those without responsibility toward neighbors and country! It was not passed to purchase a depraved rabble with free food, free shelter and free circuses. Not for their envious lust was this law passed! Not for the purpose of buying their votes was the law written! For when our fathers hewed a civilization out of rock and wilderness and forest and wild beasts and barbarians the market rabble did not exist, the cowardly were not yet born, the thieves were not clamoring at the treasury, the weak were not whining at the doors of Senators’ houses, the irresponsible did not sit idle on the streets and on the land.

“We had a law for such people. We put them forcibly to work for their bread. We gave them no solicitude because they were of low intelligence and base passions and craven spirits. We said to them, Work, or you shall not eat. And they worked, or perished. They had no voice in our government, and were despised by heroes, and our fathers were heroes.”

He had to pause to get his breath. He was panting. Sweat was pouring down his face and he did not heed it. He bent his head to facilitate the movement of his lungs. His hand gripped the rod of authority.

And there was silence in the chamber, silence on the steps and at the entrance. Scaevola was no longer glowering and rolling up his eyes.

Then Marcus raised his head again. He had long forgotten that he was addressing dangerous Senators who could destroy him. He spoke to the soul of Rome, as a Roman.

“We are taxed in our bread and our wine, in our incomes and our investments, on our land and on our property, not only for base creatures who do not deserve the name of men, but for foreign nations, for complaisant nations who will bow to us and accept our largesse and promise us to assist in the keeping of the peace—these mendicant nations who will destroy us when we show a moment of weakness or our treasury is bare, and surely it is becoming bare! We are taxed to maintain legions on their soil, in the name of law and order and the Pax Romana, a document which will fall into dust when it pleases our allies and our vassals. We keep them in precarious balance only with our gold. Is the heart-blood of our nation worth these? Shall one Italian be sacrificed for Britain, for Gaul, for Egypt, for India, even for Greece, and a score of other nations? Were they bound to us with ties of love, they would not ask our gold. They would ask only our laws. They take our very flesh, and they hate and despise us. And who shall say we are worthy of more?”*

“They will kill him,” said Scaevola. “For he has spoken truth and when shall a man be permitted to live when he speaks the truth?”

But the Senators of probity listened with pale and severe faces. The Senators who were venal sneered silently at each other.

Marcus went on in a voice that trembled yet was loud. “Then, for the base within our gates, and our potential enemies throughout the world, Rome is slowly but surely being destroyed. For votes. For a peace which is without honest foundation. Was ever a nation so dishonored and threatened from within and without before, as Rome is now threatened? Yes, Greece is only one. Egypt is only one. And those before them. And they fell; they died. It is a law of nature. It is also a financial law. Debt and profligacy lead but to despair and bankruptcy. It was always so.

“This law, under which my client has been convicted, is an old law. Let us remember the intentions of those who wrote it, and let us beware of the dark intentions of those who use it today. For the first were heroes. Those who use it today are criminals.”

“He will not see the dawn,” said Scaevola.

“Treason,” muttered Senator Curius. “Let us throw him in chains.”

One of his friends whispered behind his hand, “Let him continue. Let Servius and his friends listen to this monstrous affront to the government and the people of Rome, and let them learn for all time what it means when such as this Cicero afflicts us. Let Servius and his fellows condemn him, themselves, then that Scaevola cannot blame us.”

Servius and his friends had listened with pale faces and gathered brows and in total silence. They waited for Marcus to continue.

His voice dropped eloquently. He held out his hands to the Senate, and the magnificent ring flashed on it like a myriad of colored stars.

“My lords, let us consider just law. Does it bring tranquillity, good order, piety, justice and liberty and prosperity to a people? Does it nourish patriotism and the way of a manly and upright life? Then it is a good law, and deserves our utter obedience.

“But if it brings pain, intolerable burdens, injustice, sleepless anxiety and fear and slavery to a people, then it is an evil law passed and upheld by evil men, who hate humanity and wish to subjugate and control it. If this be treason on my part, lords, accuse me then of it, and say why it is treason. Let those who listen, hear your accusations before them and before God.”*

He fell into silence. He clasped his hands tightly before him. His piteous clients huddled behind him and tried to touch his garments with their timid hands. Then he brought forward his client, Persus, and stood him before the Senate.

“Look upon this man, lords,” said Marcus. “His fathers fought with ours, for Rome. His fathers gave birth to the Republic, as ours did, also. His forefathers built our walls, and struggled with hardships and the wilderness, as did ours. He is bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. But his spirit, though independent, is yet humble. It never sought for power. It loved the land, and a little peace, and the sun on a few acres. It asked little of life but the comfort of a wife and industrious children. If this man gave birth to no Senators, no Consuls, no tribunes, he yet gave birth to the ancient strength of Rome. He, more than many of us, is Rome, herself.

“What crime has our brother committed against neighbor and his country? Has he taken illicit bribes? Has he been guilty of treason? Has he run with the enemy one day and then pursued him the next, for money? Is he a murderer? Is he a thief or a pervert? Has he betrayed friendship or a trust? Has he practiced simony or subornation, or any other evil? Is he vile, detestable, an adulterer, a dangerous liar, a blasphemer of the gods?”

Marcus paused, and then he raised his fists and cried, “No! He is only not able to pay his taxes, which you say are just! For that shall he be defamed, punished, destroyed, starved, driven into the earth which is more merciful than we?

“Of what crime does he stand committed? He could not pay his taxes!

“Is a little money greater, then, to a government, of more importance, of more value, than a human life, a Roman life, and above all, human dignity? Is a Roman citizen less than his house and his cattle, his humble lares and penates, his small furniture?

“God gave this man his life, yet you would destroy it for a few pieces of gold. Do you believe, then, that you are wiser and more urgent than God, that gold is more valuable than a human soul? Then, my lords, you have uttered the most terrible blasphemy of them all!”

“Treason!” cried Curius, and started to his feet and glared with violent fury on the lawyer. “Dog! You have taunted us with your obscurities, your maudlin pleas, your lies, your insolence! Guard!”

Servius rose also. He turned to Curius and said, “You lie, yourself, Curius. He has spoken but truth. And may the gods defend him. Surely man will not.”

A great hubbub rose in the chamber and at the doors, and there were distant shouts of “Hero! Noble Marcus Tullius Cicero! Free the oppressed!” For a great mob had suddenly gathered at the doors and were now shaking raised fists and showing their turbulent faces.

“Sit down,” said Servius to the other Senator. “Do you want insurrection, while we are in the midst of war? You know how volatile and easily aroused is the Roman rabble. Take care! This man can destroy you with his tongue.”

Curius sat down, but he clenched his hands on his knees and regarded Marcus with hatred, and there was murder in his eyes.

Marcus waited. He put his arm tenderly about his client. He prayed inwardly. Then, suddenly, he was overcome, his heart swelled. He could not restrain his tears. His sobs were clearly heard. His whole body shook and quaked with his emotions. And the Senators watched, some with hard and bitter faces, and some with compassion and shame.

Then Marcus could speak again. He put his hand again on his client’s shoulder and displayed him to the Senate.

“Look upon a fellow Roman, lords. He is a victim of these gold-devouring wars. Just as you are victims. He had a young son, hardly more than a child, who died in the Social War, full of patriotism and the love of his country. Just as some of you have lost sons in the war.

“But—he lost all he had in this calamity! It was little—but he lost it. But you did not lose all you had. There was much you retained.

“Persus has nothing left but his wife and his remaining children. Shall you deprive him of that little? Shall you take from a Roman brother that which is dear to yourselves? Only the Fates prevented you from being born in his bed, and with his destiny. It was no worthiness on your part. It was a throw of the dice.”

Then Marcus flung out his arms and advanced a step or two toward the Senators. He did not hear the dull and roaring clamor near the doors, as more and more men crowded to hear him. He was not aware of the tension in the chamber, the unbearable passions, the quickly beating hearts of pity or rage.

“Do justice to my client. It is said that the gods love to see mercy in man, for mercy gives a godliness even to the most humble. Be magnanimous. Let the news of your charity and your kindness reach the gates of the city, and beyond. Are you not honorable men, Romans, revering your fathers? Is not virtue the most becoming toga a man can wear? What is more shining? What is more laudable? What arouses admiration most of all in the breast of all men but examples of goodness, mercy, and justice? What do men reverence more than power? Honor and nobility and right doing. For, no matter how base the man, he adores virtue.”

The majority of the Senators then remembered writings at midnight on the walls of the city. Their names had been vilified. They had read inscriptions in red: “Adulterer! Murderer! Traitor! Seducer! Libertine! Thief!”

Roman mobs were never truly friendly, not even to a hero. They had sly eyes and ears for the peculiarities of those in power. They were a lion, held precariously by the tail. What had the sybils written? That Rome would fall first from within, that Roman streets would run red with blood, that Rome would burn. Romans might fawn for corn and a purse, and might give their votes to a benefactor. But it was in the nature of men to dislike the powerful, whether out of envy or out of suspicion.

A thousand legions would not be able to restrain them if they revolted, nor a thousand prisons contain them.

The venal Senators pondered. They needed new adulation in these days, new clients, new followers, new voters. All these were now difficult to obtain. But, if their virtue were broadcast from this chamber, carried on the wind of many voices, then they could rest secure, at least for a little while.

And there was Scaevola near the door, watching them with mocking eyes, his thumb turned up, Scaevola who knew too much.

The Senators of integrity had been deeply and profoundly moved by Marcus’ words. They wrinkled their brows over the law. They, too, thought of rumor from this chamber. Would others default on their taxes, hoping for mercy, if Persus were freed?

The Consul then rose, and all rose with him. He said, in an old man’s voice, but in a steady one: “You have heard. I recommend that this prisoner be set free, and his wife and children with him. As he has lost all, through our command, I order that that which we have taken be restored to him. Of what use are more beggars in the streets?”

He looked at Persus and his wife and children, who had fallen on their knees at these words and had lifted their hands in tearful adoration to him. His face was stern.

“You have been freed not because you were a victim of a law which does not exist. It exists. To your lawyer I say that this law cannot be removed, however his eloquence. To abrogate this law would be to destroy all our elaborate legal structure and its many ramifications, which certainly to many sober citizens would be most salubrious.” He paused to purse his mouth in a dry smile. “It is said that for the sake of Rome we are committed to the world, which needs the money of Roman taxpayers, no matter the desperate burden on our people. What matter if a Roman starve or despair or lose his faith in just government? Who is the modern Roman? He is a slave to countries who regard him only as a means of soft subsistence and protection and endless bounty. He is a slave to the ambitious in his own nation, who use his own money to buy personal power and maintain themselves in office.

“I have said this law cannot be removed. I will amend that by saying that it can only be removed when Romans, aware of their extreme peril, demand that it be removed. Alas, a people never awake to their danger until it is too late.”

He looked at Persus and his wife and children and said in a sad voice, “Go in peace. Be industrious as always. Implore the gods that they, and your fellow Romans, visit no more affliction upon you. Have not all of us Romans suffered in these years? May God have mercy on us all.”

He stepped from his high stone platform, set his face forward and moved without a glance through the aisle of the Senators, who stood like statues on each side of his passage. The guards cleared a path for him and he left the chamber.

Immediately on seeing him the people shouted, “Hero! Hercules!” He smiled darkly and contemplated them for a moment. Then he inclined his head in a godly fashion and the mob screamed at this acknowledgment of their existence and tore garlands and ribbons from their heads to hurl at his feet.

“Jove!” the mighty cry went up. The object of this salutation smiled from right to left, musingly and with some satire, and went into his waiting litter. But before he closed the curtains he caught the eye of Scaevola and gave him an ironic bow.

The Senators, hearing the salute to their leader, came out eagerly in a dignified body and were gratified to be saluted as heroes also. They would be forgotten tomorrow, but as no politician believes that in his heart, they accepted the adulation. It was only Senator Servius who asked himself, “Do they know why they acclaim us, or what occured this hour, or what is the meaning? No.”

Marcus remained behind to console and congratulate his clients, who knelt about him to kiss his hands and his feet and his garments. He gave them his own meagre purse. Roman lawyers did not receive fees from clients, but only random gifts if the beneficiaries were grateful enough. Persus wept. “I will send you two of my new kids, blessed Master!” Marcus said, “Then send them to my paternal island in Arpinum, if you can spare them.”

He suddenly thought of Arpinum, and he was filled with so powerful a nostalgia for that peaceful spot that he immediately vowed that, danger or not, he would visit it soon. He stood in meditation and it was only after a considerable period that he looked up to find himself alone, confronting the vast statue of the blind goddess of Justice, with her scales in her hands.

He thought: There are many who make sardonic remarks on the blindness of Justice. But she wears a blindfold not for the obvious reason. She wears it that her judgment shall not be swayed by the mere “appearance” of those she judges in her balances, by overt and false pathos, or pleasing but meretricious distress. At all times she is impartial. That is the meaning of Law.

He walked slowly to the great doors, to find only his friends waiting for him. He smiled on them a little grimly.

“To whom do I owe the honor of the motley Greek chorus which seethed about this door only a short time ago, hailing ‘heroes’?”

Scaevola, in his chair, assumed an injured expression. “I am the pontifex maximus. My fledglings are not to be ignored. Therefore, I asked my former students, who are grateful to me, to send their clerks to salute you. Ungrateful one!”

“And I,” said Noë, also appearing indignant. “My people love my father, and if they desired to hail his savior, shall they be restrained?”

Archias winked at his beloved pupil, and said, “The Greeks admire those who admire them. Do you not admire the Greeks, my dear Marcus? Shall you deny them the opportunity to express their affection for you?”

Julius Caesar said, “My friends on the Palatine adore a just man.” He smiled broadly at Marcus, and nudged him in the ribs. “They also adore me. They are young men, and love a frolic at Senators’ expense. Did you wish to deny them amusement?”

“And each of these devoted men brought with him the scourings of rabble from the alleys and the wine shops,” said Marcus.

Scaevola became extremely virtuous. “Is it not better for a mob to howl exuberantly for justice than to howl for the death of a fallen gladiator in the circus—though I admit they do not know the difference?”

“I should have preferred that my eloquence had moved them, or that justice had stirred their hearts,” said Marcus.

Scaevola rolled up his eyes as if desperately imploring that the gods give him patience. He could find no words. He said only, “Bah.”

“Do you not realize,” said the young Marcus, with heat, “that at a word from all of you that mob would have assaulted, and perhaps killed, a number of the Senators, without knowing why they did it?”

“Excellent,” said Scaevola. “I overlooked an opportunity.”

Noë, in his litter with Marcus, said, “You forget that you won your case. Is that not of some satisfaction? Many who heard you were not mindless, in spite of Scaevola’s remarks. They are serious young men. They will remember.”

Marcus was a little relieved. Also, he was exhausted by his own emotions. He said, “Remain for a cup of wine with me, while I receive my mother’s and father’s felicitations. I see my brother has already raced home with the news.” He paused. “And then I will return to you all this magnificence with which you arrayed me. Did you notice that young Julius deftly removed his lent wand of authority from my hand?”

Noë laughed. “It is symbolic of the young Caesar. I hear he has developed epilepsy, and you know the superstitious believe that it is a divine gift, for one hears strange things and sees even stranger during convulsions. No. You must not return what I gave you. It is a fee from my father and myself, for what you have done for him.”

“I did nothing,” Marcus persisted.

“You did it all,” said Noë, with considerable impatience. “What is this modesty? It is said that God loves modesty in men. But mankind despises it.”

Later, Marcus embraced his father, Tullius. “It was your words that inspired me,” he said. He kissed his father’s hands, and his father tenderly blessed him.

“I have had few moments of pride,” said Tullius, weeping. “But today I am a proud man. I have not lived in vain.”

*From De Republica.

*From Cicero’s Law.