CHAPTER THIRTY

Marcus dined with Roscius in the actor’s gem of a house, and Noë was also present. “Politicians,” said Roscius, “must be mountebanks, or they are not politicians.”

“I am not yet a politician,” said Marcus.

“My dear friend,” said Roscius, “all lawyers are incipient politicians. And both are actors. It is not what they say before magistrates or the people. It is how they say it, the postures they assume, the manipulations of their voices. One of my early mentors, a very old actor, had the ability to count to ten and so moving was his voice, so tragic his aspect, that spectators burst into tears.”

“Marcus has a most eloquent voice,” said Noë, “and most moving, and I have taught him to stand gracefully and use certain gestures.”

“I have observed him before magistrates,” said Roscius, refilling his goblet, and then turning to study Marcus critically. “I have also observed that he wins often after appeals, when the records are read meticulously. Why does he not always win originally, in spite of those fine gestures you have mentioned, Noë? Eheu! He is not much of an actor.”

“Thank you,” said Marcus. “I know I am jejune, but I was under the impression that lawyers win on points of law and the justice of their causes.”

“What nonsense,” said Roscius.

“So Scaevola told him, and I,” said Noë. “What was our reward? He asked us sarcastically why we had summoned a ‘Greek chorus.’ Scaevola threw up his hands in despair.”

Roscius sighed in sympathy. “Stand up,” he directed Marcus. “Consider me a Senator. Walk toward me, as if about to present the case of Captain Cato Servius.”

Marcus obeyed, trying to conceal his annoyance. He fixed Roscius with his eyes; he stood tall in his long plain robe with its wide leather belt. Roscius pursed his lips. “I like that fire in the eye,” he said. “Can you summon it at will?”

“I did not know it was there,” said Marcus. “I was only considering knocking out a few of your teeth, those splendid teeth of yours.”

“Excellent,” said Roscius, slapping his knee. “Consider the teeth of the venal Senators. Do they not devour the substance of the people? Are they not the curse of widows and orphans. Retreat, and approach me again, so I may observe you more closely.”

Marcus did so. He stopped before Roscius who stood to examine him. Then the actor nodded and sat down again. “You have a proud air,” he said. “It will not be well on this occasion. You must appear broken. And you must wear the clothing of mourning, and carry a staff on which you will lean as if you need its support. There must be ashes on your brow, and a kerchief in your hand with which you will wipe tears away at intervals, tears which I trust you can produce easily.”

He lifted his hand as Marcus began to protest in a loud voice. “Listen to me, my dear friend, and listen intently.”

He spoke for some time. Marcus’ expression lost its indignation. He began to smile. His eyes sparkled with marveling amusement. When Roscius had done, he laughed with delight, shaking his head. “I shall feel a fool,” he remarked.

Marcus gave exclusive thought to the case of Cato Servius in the next few days, and wrote on his address day and night to the point of exhaustion. Nothing pleased him. Then he remembered his first appearance before the Senate, and went to his father and explained all to him.

The pale and emaciated and sickly Tullius listened with new passion.

“So, it has come to this in Rome,” he said, as he had said so many times before in a grieved and broken voice. “You say it is possible, my son, to save Servius’ honor. You think that enough? You must save his life also, for which you despair. His grandsons are very young. Who will be their guardians after the death of Servius? Servius must live, that he instruct his grandsons in fearless pride and Roman faith.”

Marcus was silent. Then his face glowed. He put his hands on his father’s shoulders and bent and kissed his cheek. “You are right, my father,” he said. “But you must pray for my success, for which I fear.” And he marveled again in himself that one so secluded and so timid and unworldly could strike so directly at the heart of a matter.

“Men of honor in these days,” he said to his father, “are like the bird who feigns to have a broken wing to lead astray the destroyer who would despoil her nest and murder her children. We have but broken wings. The destroyer will prevail.”

“Yes,” said Tullius, his mild eyes shimmering. “Nevertheless, some fledglings survive. What you save of Rome today will be remembered by a few, who will hand the lamp of truth down through the ages to other men, to light the darkness.”

Lucius Sergius Catilina said to Julius Caesar, “I do not know your reason, but you should have permitted Cicero to be murdered. Are you still sentimental?”

“No,” said Julius. “But he has a reputation, and there are multitudes who love him.”

“Bah,” said Catilina. “The people forget their heroes; they obey only their masters.”

Julius smiled. Catilina laughed heartily. “You!” he exclaimed. “No, it is something else. You will not tell me, of course.”

“No,” said Julius. He paused. “But Cicero is still under my protection.”

“Though he will oppose you and Pompey in the Senate.”

“Though he will oppose me.”

“You think you will succeed?”

“Without doubt. Do you not know that he has written to Sulla to say that he will denounce his noble client, Captain Cato Servius, before the Senate?”

“No! It is not possible!”

Julius smiled complacently. “It is true. Sulla showed me Cicero’s letter.”

Catilina was stunned. “You are speaking truly? Cicero wrote that he would denounce that old fool before the Senate?”

“Yes. I saw the letter with my own eyes.”

“Then he is not as formidable as I thought him,” said Catilina, still incredulous. He considered, then said angrily, “He is a trickster! I do not believe he is retreating now.”

“He was never that,” said Julius. He smoothed his thin black hair. “He has respectfully prayed that Sulla be present.”

Catilina stared at him, then frowned. “He would never dare, that Chick-pea, to humiliate the great Sulla before the Senate,” he said.

Julius considered. He said, “I doubt that Cicero would not dare to do anything. You have thought him mild and ineffective, and his triumph over you due only to an accident, the slip of your foot. But I have known him well. He is afraid of nothing. Did he not defeat those who would have murdered him?”

“But he would not dare humiliate Sulla! It would cost him his life.”

Julius, who had hardly listened, said, “I may have underestimated him, for I recall him as a gentle and humorous youth, full of honor and uprightness. But what would he gain if he gamble everything in a game he cannot win?”

Marcus sat with his old friend and tutor, Archias, in the house of the Greek, before a round bronze stove containing hot and comfortable coals.

“Your strategy, my dear Marcus, is very dangerous,” said the Greek.

“I have always been extremely cautious, to my present regret.”

“I have counseled caution, if you may remember, but now I deplore it. Cautious nations become slaves. Let me read, again, your address to the Senate.”

Archias shook his head. “My years are heavy on me, otherwise I should be enchanted at all this. Why do I cling to what little time remains for me? It is simple. The known is less frightful to contemplate than the unknown. I pray again, but to whom I do not know.” He paused. “You understand, of a certainty, that this cause of yours can result either in triumph or in death—for you?”

“Yes.”

Captain Cato Servius turned his face with umbrage upon Marcus, as they sat knee to knee in the prison.

“I cannot do this,” said Servius, shaking his head.

Marcus said wearily, as he had said a dozen times, “I am asking you to do nothing dishonorable, for I should not do it myself. The dust of the earth is filled with the remains of reckless heroes. If a man climb to a high pillar and then hurl himself stupidly upon the winds, exclaiming that the gods will uphold him with their arms and their wings, will they do so? No. It is expected of men that they use the intelligence and prudence with which they have been endowed, and not tempt the gods. What availed the recklessness of Icarus? Apollo melted the wax on his presumptuous wings and let him die in the sea.”

“You have not talked so to me before like this, Cicero,” said Servius.

“I have never advised you to come bare-handed into the presence of your enemies, lord. We cannot come before them like children, pattering and babbling. Again, I implore you to remember your grandsons.”

It wounded his soul when the old soldier tried to peer at him from his eyeless sockets. “Lord,” he said, sadly, “I am not speaking to you with guile, I swear to you. Did Horatius and his friends stand unarmed upon the bridge they defended? No. You are a soldier. You must meet the enemy on his own ground, and bear the arms he himself bears.”

“I shall never be happy again,” said the old soldier.

“When your grandsons sit upon your knee, lord, you will be happy,” said Marcus.

“I would, almost, that they die,” said Servius, “before this day.”

“Then Rome would be the poorer.”

Servius tried to see him again. “Would your grandfather have advised me as you have done, Cicero?”

Marcus hesitated. At last he said, “I swear to you, lord, I do not know. Do not press me. Think of your grandsons.”

“But at what a price I must buy their lives!”

Marcus left the old soldier in a gloomy state of mind. That night he went to his parents’ chamber and told them all. Helvia’s face became brooding, but to Marcus’ astonishment Tullius began to laugh, at first faintly, and then with huge, gathering mirth. Helvia was amazed, and so was Marcus.

“I think it’s a marvelous comedy!” exclaimed Tullius. “Ah, Marcus, do not be like the lawyer, Strepsiades in Aristophanes’ play, who, when shown a map and observing a dot upon it which his tutor said was Athens, replied in bewilderment, ‘It cannot be! There are not, to my observation, any courts in session there!’ There is no integrity in session in the Senate in these days, my son.”

Helvia looked with pride at her husband, and smiled upon her son. “Your father has put it well, Marcus.”

Encouraged and excited by his wife’s admiration, Tullius added, “Were this an occasion when a point of just law is to be argued, then I should urge you argue your cause upon it, and then leave it in the hands of the gods. But how can gods prevail when men choose evil in their government?”

Sulla, alone the night before that session of the august Senate which would hear the charges against Servius, considered Marcus’ extraordinary letter, written with apparent humility. Sulla was attacked by a strange emotion. Then he, who did not believe in the gods, but only in himself, went_ to the shrine of Mars in his atrium and lighted a candle before the ferocious statue. He said, aloud, “There are soldiers who never bore a sword, and brave men who died in no battle.”