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.”*

“So speaks the civilian,” said Pompey with some disdain, and giving Sulla a meaning glance.

“So speaks the honest man of conviction,” said Julius, and also glanced at Sulla. “And does not Rome need honest men?”

“I speak as a Roman,” said Marcus. He was full of umbrage. He looked at Sulla, expecting vexation, but to his surprise Sulla appeared pleased. Sulla said, “We have no traitor here, in the person of our Cicero. Therefore, he can be trusted.”

Is it possible that they were afraid of me? Marcus asked himself incredulously.

Sulla said, “Our Julius has told me that you have always mistrusted the masses, Cicero.”

“I distrust uncontrolled and vehement emotion, which has its impulse not in reason but in malice and confusion, lord. If man is to rise above mere beasthood then he must obey just law, formulated by just men.” Marcus spoke with emphasis. “I repeat, just law, formulated by just men, and not random and expedient law which is the servant of tyrants. That law which appeals to the sentimentality, gross and unlearned, of the masses, or to their bellies, is no law at all. It is only the lust of the barbarian, the scream of the jungle. Such law leads us back to the wilderness of tooth and bloody claw, the service of mindless beasts. Unfortunately, too often, that wild law of savagery is used by unscrupulous men to advance their own interests, and they, too often, find it in the masses. These unscrupulous men discover, to their own ruin, that they have seized a tiger by the tail.”

“You will observe, lord,” said Julius, “that Cicero has no high regard for the noisy and noisome masses.” He spoke with affection.

Marcus cried, “We are not speaking of the same thing at all! The people have souls and minds! I ask that rulers appeal to these things, and not to base appetites!”

“Cicero is not ambiguous, thank the gods,” said Sulla. “He is not ambitious.” He smiled briefly at Marcus. “I am pleased to find a man who loves the laws of Rome. I can ask nothing more.”

Marcus stared at him bitterly. He said, “You killed my cousin, Lynius, a kindly and innocent man who knew nothing of politics, and wished only to live in peace.”

Sulla put down his goblet of wine. “I know nothing of your cousin, Lynius.” He turned to Julius. “Was his name on my proscription list?”

Julius frowned as if trying to remember. Then he threw up his hands. “Lord, it is impossible to remember all those names. I do not recall the name of one Lynius. It is possible that some informer whispered, out of his own interests, to one of your officers, who then ordered his execution.”

“That is militarism, blunt and ruthless,” said Marcus. “It is not even aware of its own crimes. It delegates wholesale murder.”

“Was his property confiscated?” asked Sulla.

“Yes. As was the property of thousands of men like him, of the middle-class, innocent men who industriously pursued their daily occupation, believing that established law would protect them.”

Sulla made a faint sound. He said to Julius, “The property of this Lynius must be returned to his family at once. Cicero is justly distraught.”

They are trying to buy me, but why? Marcus asked himself. He said, “Thank you, lord. My cousin has a wife and several children.” He was so exhausted by his own emotions that he prayed to be dismissed. He said, “Rome is no longer a nation of law. That is my grief.”

“I have restored the law. I have restored the Republic,” said Sulla. “I have delivered my people from that which you deplore: Exigency. Lawlessness. I have given discipline again to the populace.”

It is useless, thought Marcus with growing despair. We do not speak the same language.

If only I could return to the island, and forget this new world! he cried in himself. But, where is there peace? Where is there a spot which is not invaded now by corruption and violence and lies? He said to Julius, “You have spoken of a point of law. Tell me. I have clients waiting.”

But it was Sulla who spoke. “Julius is married to the daughter of Cinna, Cornelia. I wish him to divorce her. I could command it, but you will observe, Cicero, that I am a man of law.” He said this without a smile, and only with the gravest face.

Marcus was again amazed. If Sulla wished Julius to divorce that young and beautiful girl why was Julius obdurate? Julius beamed upon him. “I love Cornelia,” he said. “What has her father to do with us?”

“You oppose General Sulla?” asked Marcus in a disbelieving voice.

“In this, yes, my dear Marcus.” Julius’ smile was serene.

“It is an insignificant matter,” said Sulla, impatiently. “The girl is not important. Let Julius divorce her and return her dowry. Why should he not, if he is devoted to me?”

Why not, indeed? thought Marcus. He stared intently at Julius. He shook his head in bewilderment. Julius said, “I will give up all else in my devotion to General Sulla, but not my wife.”

Hah! thought Marcus, bitterly. I see it now. He will not divorce Cornelia at Sulla’s command because he wishes to convince Sulla he is not all exigency, and therefore he can be trusted.

“Let us consider the law,” said Marcus. “It is not enough for law to be meticulous. It must be just also. It is not enough for law to be meticulous and just, it must be understanding. It is not enough for law to be meticulous and just and understanding, it must also be compassionate. It is not enough for law to be meticulous, just, understanding, and compassionate. It must also be rooted in absolute truth.

“What is that truth? God alone knows. Laws of men cannot be truly laws unless they are based on, and further, the laws of God. Our ancient laws state that such a man must not divorce his wife unless for total cause, such as adultery or inability to bear children, or for madness or betrayal. Cornelia has committed none of these, of her own will or out of her nature. Therefore, Julius has no grounds for divorce.”

“So, you uphold Julius in his disobedience?” asked Sulla.

“It is best, always, to obey God rather than man,” replied Marcus.

Sulla turned to Julius. “I did not know that you reverenced the laws of gods and Rome more than anything else,” he said, and smiled slightly.

But Julius assumed much gravity. “Lord, I could not serve you well if I did not serve the gods more.”

Sulla said, “As a soldier, I am a man of law, a Roman. Therefore, though I prefer a different judgment from Cicero; I bow to the laws I have restored.”

Marcus saw then that Sulla was studying him with concentration, that his black brows were drawn together, his hands clasped tightly on the table. Sulla finally said, “As you obey the gods, Cicero, then you obey the law. It is enough for me.”

Sulla was smiling his cold and wolfish smile. “And now, Cicero, I have news of great import for you. Your brother, the centurion, Quintus Tullius Cicero, is under my roof at this very moment.”

Marcus’ first emotion was a wild and stunning disbelief, a sense of profound and numbing shock. He rose slowly, his eyes fixed upon Sulla, then upon Julius, and then upon Pompey. None told him anything; each face was like a bust carved from marble, unchanging in expression. Then a powerful thrill of incredible joy ran like lightning through him, again and again. Quintus was not dead! Quintus lived! In a moment he would hear his voice, embrace him, clasp him to his heart. He swung on his heel. “Quintus!” he cried. His heart trembled.

There was no answering call; the door did not open; no one spoke. Marcus suddenly became conscious of the deep silence in the large white and black room. He swung back, bewildered, to those who sat near him, and he saw their smooth faces. It was then that joy and gladness departed. It was then that he was filled with the greatest fear of his life, far greater than that he had experienced when assassins had tried to murder him. He leaned forward, shaking, and grasped the edge of the table to keep himself from falling. “Quintus,” he whispered to Sulla’s brown still face. “Quintus?”

Sulla said in a voice that was almost kindly, “Seat yourself, Cicero. You are as white as death. I have a story to tell you.”

There is no story to tell, thought Marcus. They are to execute Quintus, as they have executed thousands more. What has my good and loving brother done against them?

“Tell me,” said Marcus, forcing the words through a throat that felt like iron and salt. Then he cried furiously, “Tell me! Do not torment me like this!” He struck the table with his clenched fists.

Sulla raised his eyebrows, then looked at Julius. “Why is our Cicero so distracted?”

Julius said very quickly, “Marcus, restrain yourself. Quintus is alive. He is a noble soldier, and we honor him. Sulla regards him as a son.”

Marcus’ hands slipped from the table and he fell into his chair. His heart clamored at his ribs. He was as weak as death. He stared at Sulla, who frowned faintly.

Sulla said, “I called to the officers of the Roman armies outside the city and in foreign territories to join me against the armies of the Consuls. It was their duty, but many were stupid and obstinate and thought that they should remain with the latter; I do not deplore their loyalty, though it was misplaced. However, your brother was not one of these. He came to me at once, in Asia, from Gaul, with his men. His duty, he understood, was to Rome, not to Cinna, not to Carbo, not to the Consuls.”

His pale eyes dwelled on Marcus’ face, waiting for a comment. Marcus did not know what Sulla wanted of him; he did not even know that Sulla wanted anything at all. He could only whisper, “Quintus, Quintus.”

They waited for him to regain composure. Then Julius was at his side with a goblet of wine. “Drink, dear friend,” he said. “There is nothing to fear.”

“Why should Cicero fear anything, for himself, for his brother?” asked Pompey in a slow and meaning voice.

Marcus pushed aside Julius’ hand and shook his head over and over. He could feel nothing at all now except a vast trembling along his nerves. “Where is Quintus? Why does he not come to me?”

“He cannot,” said Sulla, with something like compassion in his metallic voice. “He has lain at the point of death for a long time, and for a long time we despaired of his life. He fought the Samnites with me, to the very gates of Rome, and there fell. He was carried to a farmhouse near the gates, and his men, and my own personal physician, have been in attendance on him from that very moment. Only three days ago was he brought to this house, when we were assured that there was a possibility that he would live. He is still in much danger, and not often conscious. But my physician believes that he will survive.”

Marcus turned in desperate rage to Julius, only half-comprehending. “Why was I, his brother, not told? My parents and I have lived in agony for nearly a year! You knew where we live, Julius! A word, a single word would have alleviated our terrible anxiety, but you would not bring it!”

Julius’ face changed. He hesitated. “I was in no position to do so.”

Marcus’ white lips drew back from his teeth as he regarded Julius with mingled anger and loathing. “No,” he said, “I must not ask you, for you will never tell me.” He turned to Sulla, again. “Why did we not have letters from my brother, so that we should not have lived in our apprehension and our misery?”

Sulla became impatient. “Have you forgotten my own position with regard to the Consuls of Rome? Have you forgotten that they thought of me as an outlaw, a revolutionary, a traitor to them? Have you forgotten my exile for all those years, while Marius, Cinna, and Carbo ruled Rome and almost destroyed her? Would you have had me betray my own heroic officers, like your brother, so that the murderers within these gates should visit their contemptible and craven revenge on their families? I forbade my officers to communicate with their families, for their own sake. Do you think you should have survived, and your parents with you, if Cinna and Carbo had known that your brother was my loyal officer and had given me his fealty? Consider, Cicero.”

Marcus’ shaking hand reached for the goblet which Julius had placed near him and he drank all the wine in one long gulp.

“You underestimate your importance in this city,” said Sulla, in a fatherly voice. “You are too modest. Your fame is everywhere, Cicero. You would not be alive today if your brother had disobeyed my orders and had written to you, no matter how secretly.”

He sighed, and moved irritably in his chair. “Consider Rome. The populace is no longer of the order of the old Romans. Many are composed of the sons and the grandsons of those who were once slaves. They are people of a multitude of alien races and religions, a polyglot tribe. What do they know of the Founding Fathers of Rome, of our traditions and institutions, and our Constitution, and our inheritance? There is no pride in the mobs of Rome, no understanding of the history of Rome. What few old Romans remain are in the minority, and they were hated by Marius, Cinna, and Carbo, for their virtues were a reproach. Have you forgotten, Cicero, the endless massacres which took place in this city while I was in exile? Only the gods preserved you and your family!”

It was as if Sulla had struck a great bell in Marcus’ heart, and he was filled with confusion, for Sulla had spoken the words he had known best, and which he had learned from his grandfather. Sulla said, “It is impossible to restore a nation without the sword. I have used the sword. That is why you detest me, Cicero. But you are still young. Understanding will come to you.” He sighed again. “I do not deceive myself that what I have tried to restore will survive. I have only delayed the final ruin of my country.”

He motioned to Pompey who refilled his goblet. Marcus was silent. But he was thinking: How intricate is man, how tortuous, how indirect! There are no absolutes in him! All that Sulla has said is in my own spirit, yet he is a ruthless murderer, and he has abrogated the Constitution in many ways and has imposed militarism on my country. How divided are the hearts of men! What confusions dwell in their souls!

Sulla drank his wine, then folded his lean hands on the table and stared at them. “Your brother should have died, Cicero, had not Lucius Sergius Catilina come to his rescue in the heat of battle.”

At the mention of that hated name Marcus became very still. He could only stare at Sulla.

“Your brother,” the general continued, “had been unhorsed by the Samnites, whom he was battling. He fell to the ground; they pierced him with their lances, in the throat, the arms, the breasts. In a moment he should have died. Then Catilina, at some distance, plunged through the fighters, with a few men about him, and slew the attackers. Your brother owes his life to him.”

Marcus swallowed over and over, and then said weakly, “Catilina did not know he was my brother!”

Sulla smiled darkly. “Catilina knew your brother, Quintus. They were men-at-arms together. Catilina is a great soldier, above all other things. A soldier of Rome was about to be done to death. Therefore, Catilina preserved him. Catilina has no quarrel with your brother. Is it not time that you forget your boyish disagreement with Catilina, and feel gratitude?”

Marcus put his hands over his face. “Let me think,” he muttered.

He felt the silence grow like stone about him. His mind was invaded with clouds that fled when he tried to see them. Catilina had saved the life of Quintus. For that, he deserved gratitude. Catilina had killed the spirit and the mind of Livia, Marcus’ beloved. Nevertheless, he deserved gratitude. Had I killed him when I should, thought Marcus, my brother would not be alive today.

“I am grateful to Catilina for this,” he said in a dull voice. “However, there are other matters between us, which I cannot speak of, for it is beyond me.”

“Life,” said Sulla, with considerable grimness, “is beyond most of us.”

“Yes,” said Marcus. “It is utterly beyond us.” Lassitude, like cement, lay heavily upon his limbs. “May I see my brother?”

Julius rose with alacrity. “Dear Marcus, dear friend. I shall take you to him at once. He may not recognize you, but be assured that he will live.”

He had to assist Marcus to his feet, and he did so tenderly. Sulla and Pompey watched in silence. Then Julius led Marcus into the atrium. The outer door opened, admitting a white swirl of snow. A young woman, gay, beautiful, laughing, passed over the threshold, throwing back her hood to reveal curling masses of golden hair. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips apart to show dazzling white teeth. She exuded a thrilling air of vibrancy and life and delight. Her eyes, warm as brown silk, shimmered and sparkled. Gems glowed about her throat, on her wrists, on her fingers. Her small feet were shod with gold, and she wore a chiton of yellow wool, embroidered with a colorful multitude of flowers. Her laughter was like a tinkle of lutes.

“Julius!” she cried, extending a perfumed hand for Julius’ kiss.

“Divinity!” cried Julius in reply. He kissed the white and extended hand.

The girl eyed Marcus with curiosity over Julius’ bent head. Her lips were voluptuous, her breast rich with curves, her arms like snow. She was like full spring, profound with promise, eager and sensual. “Who is this?” she demanded of Julius, in the sweetest of voices, but peremptory.

“A friend of our lord, Sulla,” said Julius, releasing her hand with reluctance. “Marcus Tullius Cicero. A lawyer.”

The young woman looked disappointed. Apparently she expected a great name.

“The Lady Aurelia, Marcus,” said Julius.

Marcus had never seen her before, but he knew of her. She was a very rich young woman, twice divorced, and licentious and full of notoriety. Her amorous adventures were infamous in the city. There were songs about her, highly lewd. Her name had been frequently scrawled, replete with obscenities, on the walls of Rome. She looked incredibly alive and vital and avid. Her face was the face of a wicked child, smooth and without virtue.

“Where is Lucius?” she asked of Julius. The young man glanced at Marcus out of the corner of his eye.

“He will be here in a moment,” he said.

“Catilina?” said Marcus. Julius took his arm like a younger brother. “Do you not want to see Quintus?” he asked. He led Marcus away. He said, “Sulla is also named Lucius.”

“Nevertheless, she came to see Catilina,” said Marcus, sick with his old hate. “Do not lie to me, Julius. I have been able to read you like a book since you were five years old.”

“What matter these things to you, Pyramus?” said Julius.

Marcus pulled away his arm. Julius was laughing softly at him. He took Marcus’ arm again. “Women are women,” he said. “Let them not distract us. They may be beautiful, but we are men.”

As he was guided through long white halls glimmering with early winter dusk, he thought of the presence of Catilina in this house, and his mind was dark with dismay again. Catilina was vindictive and depraved, a man without conscience, a man much worse than Julius for Julius had a humorous attitude toward his own evil, and acknowledged it. Quintus was in danger in this house, from Catilina, for all his rescue by that man.

Julius reached a tall brazen door and knocked quickly upon it. It was opened by an elderly man in an austere white toga, evidently the physician of whom Sulla had spoken. “Greetings, Antonius,” said Julius. “I have brought the brother of our Quintus to see the invalid.”

The physician bowed to Marcus. “Greetings, noble Cicero. I fear you must be very quiet and not disturb my patient, who still lies close to the door of death after all these months. Only the Great Physician, Himself, has preserved him, and it is a miracle. There were many times when his breath stopped and I was certain he had died. Then his mighty heart rallied. He has a will that is almost superhuman; he refused to die. He is a true Roman.”

It was a moment or two before Marcus could make his trembling voice articulate. “I can never repay you for your devotion, Antonius. Will he recognize me?”

“That I do not know,” said the physician. “If not today, perhaps on another.” The physician was thin and tall and his bald head shone faintly in the pallid light behind him. He regarded Marcus with pity. “You must be prepared for a change in the noble soldier’s appearance.”

Marcus tried to prepare himself, but his legs were soft and weak under him when he entered a magnificent bed chamber of white marble walls inlaid with lines of black stone; the floor was covered with thick warm rugs of dark red. A carved ebony screen, intricately pierced, partly hid the window. A big wide bed stood in the center of the room, made of the finest wood and strewn with fur robes. Chinese vases decorated the corners, dimly flashing their many bright colors, and a bust of Mars, huge and fierce, stood on a squat marble column near the bed, a votive light burning scarlet before it.

Marcus ran to the bed and gazed at the face on the silken pillows of blue and gold. He had prepared himself for an immense change in his brother, due to his long and arduous recovery, but he could not believe that this emaciated man, hardly breathing, was his beloved Quintus. He appeared old and shrunken, very slight, diminished in body, barely raising the rugs which covered him. The flesh was gray, the sunken eyes closed in shadowy purple, the lips livid and fallen inwards, the brow bony and furrowed. A healed but twisted red scar ran from his left temple to his chin, and it glistened vilely.

“No, no, it is not my brother,” whispered Marcus through his tears. His gaze traced the profile, aloof and strong, pure with its fleshlessness. Then he dropped to his knees and laid his head beside that of the unconscious man.

“Quintus,” he said. “Quintus, can you hear me? Carissime, it is your brother, Marcus.”

The snow hissed beyond the window; the winter wind growled against it. The votive light raised its scarlet beam, then dropped it. Marcus’ tears wet the pillow near his brother’s head. Quintus did not stir. Marcus took one cold and lifeless hand, all bones and heavy. He pressed it against his cheek. Then slowly the eyes fluttered open, the head turned and Marcus saw the far eyes, filmed and empty, the eyes of one who had looked upon death and still stared at it.

“Carissime!” repeated Marcus. “Dearest of brothers!”

He stared desperately at his brother’s skeletal face, and into the distant eyes. Then the hand in his moved only a little, like an infant’s hand, and into the eyes came the dimmest of gleams and the dry lips stirred. Marcus bent his ear to those lips and heard a sigh, “Marcus?”

“He knows you!” said the physician, joyfully. “For the first time, he recognizes another! Ah, we shall restore him, deliver him to the arms of his family again.”

“Beloved Quintus,” said Marcus, his tears falling down his cheeks. “Rest. Sleep.” He held the cold hands between his two warm palms, to give them some of his own strength. “I shall take you home. Our mother and father await you. You are safe.”

The lips stirred again in the slightest of smiles, the very shadow of Quintus’ amiable grin, and suddenly the soldier sighed deeply and with contentment and fell asleep. But his fingers had crept about Marcus’ fingers and the pulse was stronger in them. Marcus felt a compassionate hand on his shoulder and heard Julius’ voice, “He will live now.”

Marcus had determined before seeing his brother that he would take him at once from this house but now he knew it was impossible. Quintus’ spark of life was too faint, too flickering for any movement. Any stress would blow it out. Then he became conscious that two young soldiers, armed and helmeted, stood behind the bust of Mars, watchful and silent. He said to them, controlling his voice, “Are you my brother’s legionnaires?”

They came forward, saluting. “We are, lord. We guard him day and night, listening to his breathing, and assisting the physician who never leaves him either. He is our officer. He is more to us than our own lives.”

“Is—anyone else your captain?” asked Marcus.

“None, lord, save he.” Marcus studied the resolute young faces, the ferocious temper of the black eyes. “We love him more than a brother.”

“May Mars guard you, and the blessing of Zeus fall upon you,” said Marcus, and now he loved all soldiers.

Julius, the subtile and intuitive, said affectionately, after hearing this exchange, “Be not anxious. There is none to harm him. He is under Sulla’s eye and protection, for Sulla loves him as a son.”

Marcus and Julius returned to Sulla’s room. Sulla looked at Marcus’ face and his own grimaced in sympathy. “Quintus will live,” he said, and poured wine for the young man. “Before the first spring day arrives you will take him home. Had you seen him but a few days ago you should have thought him dying, or dead. Be of good heart.”

Marcus was so undone that he could only stammer, “I am grateful, I am grateful.” He accepted the wine but before he drank he closed his eyes. Then he said, “I must be truthful. I fear for my brother, that Catilina is in this house.”

Sulla laughed shortly. “That is absurd. Catilina saved his life. He is proud that Quintus will live. They are brothers-inarms, and soldiers love each other. Moreover, I am here. I have promised my physician his freedom if Quintus lives, and a large competence. Do you think he will jeopardize them?”

Julius led Marcus into the atrium again. “The litter is waiting. Go, and give your noble mother the joyous news. I have much affection for her, for she was as a mother to me, herself, when I was a child. Convey to her my greetings.”

Marcus glanced behind him, longingly, wanting to return to his brother. Then he saw, in the shadow of columns at the end of the atrium, the Lady Aurelia and Catilina. They did not see him or cared not that he saw them. They were embracing passionately, and Aurelia was murmuring and laughing, her lips against those of Lucius.

“A pretty picture,” said Julius, idly. “Ah, how lovely is love.”

When Marcus had gone, after Julius had embraced him again, Julius returned to Sulla and Pompey. “Did I not tell you, lord, how inflexible our Marcus is in rectitude?”

Sulla smiled darkly. “How is it possible that such a one can be your friend, Caesar? What magic do you possess? Ah, if only Rome held more of his kind!”

Pompey said, “I had held that Cicero in low esteem, for he is a civilian and a lawyer. Now I feel a kindness for him.”

*From Cicero’s On Moral Duties.