CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The wind changed to the north during the night and snow fell, white and heavy over the great city. Seeing this, Julius Caesar, riding in his fine canopied litter with Pompey, said with satisfaction, “There will be few on the streets or in the Forum this day. I fear the mob above all things.”

“The mobs care nothing for old soldiers and their fate,” said Pompey.

“True,” said Julius. “But Cicero cares about Servius, and even I am amazed at the influence my unwarlike friend possesses in this city. He is known as a man of honor, and even mobs respect honor—in others. Do they not salute just men on the streets, before returning to their mendicancy and their pilfering? And do they not shout imprecations upon those who share their own crimes, though in vaster degree?”

They were disagreeably astounded as they descended in the litter to the Forum. The streets all about seethed with cloaked men whose hoods showed glimpses of intent dark faces. The soldiers directing traffic of men—for no cars or chariots or carts were permitted on the local streets or in the Forum during hours of business—were harassed and hoarse with shouting. A veritable ocean of humanity roared into the Forum; endless throngs had already gathered there, shivering and restless. The new waves pressed them closer together. Imprecations sounded furiously in the cold bright air, as each man jostled for space for his feet. Little seething battles rose here and there, when men were pushed from their places by others. Blows were struck. The vast seething pool of sombre heads contrasted vividly with the cold white pillars and columns surrounding them. Some mobs stood on the steps of temples, craning their heads toward the Senate. Some even climbed to the top of porticoes, ignoring the angry commands of soldiers. There they perched, spitting down at the warriors, and darkly grinning. The soldiers put their hands on their swords, threatening, and the men laughed. The Forum hummed like a gigantic hive of bees, a dangerous hum. The steps of the Senate were solidly packed, so that the soldiers had to stand with drawn swords making way for the litters of the Senators, whose faces revealed their consternation.

Vendors of hot sweetmeats and little steaming meat pies and wine and sausages and roasted onions and bread simmering with garlic were dexterously moving among the enormous mob, crying their wares. Men bought eagerly, holding the hot dainties in their cold hands and eating them with relish.

The red roofs of the city fumed as the snow upon them melted under the brilliant sun. The stones of the Forum ran with little black streams of water, in which the people stood heedlessly. The porticoes dripped; the columns were streaked with sparkling moisture. And still the people arrived, pushing in upon the Forum until it seemed that a man could not raise his arms from his sides. The air began to vibrate as if with constant thunder. The soldiers looked at each other helplessly and shrugged.

“Gods!” exclaimed Julius, staring down at the Forum from the parted curtains of his litter.

“Hah,” said Pompey. “So they would not be here! I did not know your Cicero was so famous.”

The litter had halted near the base of the Palatine, for it could not, as yet, proceed onward. Julius sent a slave with a staff to try to breach that fortress of human flesh. The fortress suddenly parted. A company of men appeared on horseback, with banners. Julius stared incredulously, for the leader was no less than Roscius, the actor, himself, splendidly arrayed, and surrounded by old soldiers on magnificent steeds, veterans of many years. Running behind them on foot was a turbulent river of younger soldiers, armored and helmeted, trotting in unison, their faces harsh with determination. They carried banners and lictors, and colored streamers announcing their legion. The company on horseback swept toward the Forum, unimpeded, carrying those on foot behind them as if by a wind.

“Roscius, and his accursed old soldiers, whom he tenderly patronizes!” cried Julius.

“Were they ordered by Sulla to come here? Of a certainty, no. Then why have they come?”

But Julius said, “Servius’ men. They are on furlough.”

“Where is Sulla?” said Pompey. “When he appears, he will order them to leave at once.”

Julius smiled grimly. “Even Sulla, especially in these days when he is not very popular with the military, will pause before exercising his right to disperse the soldiers. He will permit them to remain for all they are an embarrassment.”

The litter tried to proceed, then was halted again. Another and more determined horde of men poured down into the Forum, well-dressed and even armed with jeweled daggers and swords. Julius peered at them. After a moment he laughed without much amusement. “I know the leader well, in that handsome litter. It is old Archias, Cicero’s former tutor, whom I met in the house of the Ciceroni many times. And this mob is his friends, and I recognize the faces of various actors whom I have seen in the theatres. And gladiators! Gods!”

The arriving soldiers mingled with their friends already in the Forum, and the sun began to glitter on a sea of helmets and red plumes. The soldiers conferred. The earlier arrivals glanced over their cloaked shoulders uneasily. The new arrivals laughed. The banners swayed over their heads. The people roared happy approval, and clapped and stamped their feet. The atmosphere was full of the stench of bodies and wool and leather and food and garlic. The sun became brighter.

“Where is Sulla?” asked Pompey.

Said Julius cynically, “It would be less dangerous for him to be absent, than to be present.”

Pompey was impatient. “But did your Cicero not write him a letter of capitulation and imploring his presence?”

Julius leaned from the litter and admonished two of the leading slaves to try to force the wall of flesh again. Then he looked at Pompey and raised his eyebrows. “It is true that Cicero wrote that letter. But it was not exactly capitulation.”

“What, then, is your explanation, O Oracle?”

“I think,” said Julius, “that we are to enjoy a comedy.”

Suddenly trumpets shattered the air on the rise of the Palatine Hill, and there was a thundering of imperative drums. The walls of humanity parted. Soldiers rushed down the walls and stationed themselves with drawn swords, and pressed the backs of their shoulders against the screaming mobs. Then through the corridor they had made came a pounding of hoofs and the rumbling of a chariot leading a detachment of armored horsemen. And in that chariot, alone, standing up like Jove himself, stood Lucius Cornelius Sulla, dictator of Rome, whipping his horses, his head bare to the cold sun, and clad in golden armor and golden tunic, with an embroidered scarlet cloak rippling back from his shoulders.

Romans loved a spectacle. They had rarely seen their tyrant, with his pale and terrible eyes and his lean, ascetic face, and when they had seen him he had been clad sombrely and had moved with cold sharp dignity. But now he appeared imperial to them, bright as noonday, magnificent and heroic, and they raised their voices in a roar that echoed back from all the hills in a crash.

Sulla did not look at those who hailed him out of sheer admiration for his appearance. He lashed his horses splendidly. He ran like a glittering wind down into the Forum, followed by gloriously arrayed officers in silver and black breastplates and helmets tossing with blue and crimson plumes, their horses white as snow.

Julius yelled with irreverent laughter. “Roscius has a rival!” he exclaimed, as the litter slaves deftly followed in the wake of the company through the shouting and leaping hordes. Julius threw himself back on the cushions and laughed until his face dripped tears, while Pompey stared at him as one stares at a madman. When they arrived at the steps of the Senate Chamber Julius was still helpless with convulsions of mirth. His dark face was contorted; it began to turn red; a line of foam appeared at the edges of his lips. Pompey, grasping him, shook him fiercely. “Control yourself!” he cried. “Or, you will have a seizure!”

The “sacred illness” was rarely to be halted in its manifestation by an effort of will, and Pompey was in despair. Then, incredibly, he saw Julius deliberately unclench his fists, deliberately open his mouth and breathe slowly and steadily, and deliberately fix his eyes, which had begun to turn up toward the lid. The scarlet hue of his face was replaced with pallor. The foam subsided on his lips, and he licked it away. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. Calmly, he wiped it with the back of his hands, then looked at Pompey with a moment’s bedazement. He drew quiet breath after breath, then said, “We are here.” While Pompey, who had been trembling, watched in amazement, Julius alighted from the litter and made his way to the Senate steps.

The eager and craning mob saw Julius. They loved his gaiety; they loved and admired his youth; they listened avidly to the stories of his dissipations and his dissolute life, his pranks, his imaginative antics which appealed to the Roman sense of humor. He was a patrician, but he bled in his heart, it was said, for the Urbs, for the plebeians. If his solicitude for them was quite false the myth of it had been spread sedulously by his followers in many places. So the mob was delighted at the sight of him, and roared their joyous approval of all that they imagined he was. Julius paused gracefully on the steps of the Senate, doffed his helmet, and bowed smilingly to his admirers. Then he bounded like a very young man up the rest of the stairs and disappeared within the bronze doors. Pompey followed more slowly.

The Senators were all gathered in the chamber, quiet and serious in their red tunics and their white togas and red boots. Their hands glittered with gems. They gazed impassively at the seat of the Consul of the People, in which Sulla, shining and resplendent, now sat. The incense before the niches of the heroes and gods smoked bluely in the sunlight that penetrated through the doors and the high narrow windows. The cold white air of winter poured in through every aperture. Now, despite the soldiers, the mob thronged the steps and even pressed through the doors, to stand restrained. Beyond them was an endless plain of restless heads and shouting mouths, to the very limits of the Forum.

Two chairs had been placed below the Consul’s seat, chairs of fine wood with cushions of blue silk. Gravely Pompey and Julius made their way to these chairs and sat down with slow dignity and stared before them with expressions of aloof severity.

There was a tumult again at the doors and protestations. Then surrounded by the soldiers of his legion, Servius was led into the chamber, his white head proud and high, his features calm and pale, his cratered blind eyes turned straight ahead. He wore his full armor and uniform as a captain of Rome, and he walked steadily as if he could see, guided gently at each step by the touch of a soldier’s hand. When he had reached an area before the Consul’s seat, a filial hand halted him, and he stood and faced Sulla and his face was as still as stone, and the color of it.

Sulla regarded him in silence, this old friend of his, his comrade-in-arms, his captain. The Senators peered over each other’s shoulder to share the sight of this tragic confrontation. They looked from one face to the other, and could read nothing. Sulla’s pale eyes were shadowed; he had leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair and his hand partially obscured his mouth. A faint quivering began to run over Servius’ features. He could hear the restless mutterings of the huge mob; he could hear breathing all about him; he could smell the incense.

Then Servius said, in a low and questioning voice, “Lucius?”

Sulla moved, as if stricken by that word. The Senators sighed. One whispered to another, “How sorrowful for Sulla!”

Sulla said at last, “Cato.”

Servius smiled. He kept his face turned to his enemy while his soldiers rearranged his scarlet cloak and settled his helmet in the crook of his right arm, for he had no left one. All saw his scars, his blindness, his shattered state, and his pride. And all started when he held out his helmet to a soldier, and then struck his breast with his right fist and bent his stately head to the man he could not see, in a salute that had no fear in it and no servility.

“Where is the advocate of the noble Captain Cato Servius?” demanded Sulla, his voice ringing in the comparative quiet of the chamber.

“Here, lord,” answered a clear and confident voice at the doors and Marcus entered. A deep rumbling emanated from the Senators, expressive of their astonishment, for Marcus was clothed in absolute mourning and there were ashes on his forehead and he carried no rod of authority. His face was very white. He moved slowly between the ranks of the Senators and came and stood beside Servius and he gazed up into the face of Sulla.

Sulla looked down at him and his long thin mouth twitched in anger.

“What is this garb?” he demanded. “It is an insult to me and to the Senate.”

“No, lord,” said Marcus, humbly. “It is a mourning for my client’s crime.”

Sulla raised his fierce black brows. “You admit, before any trial, that your client is guilty of the crimes alleged?”

“I am not completely familiar with the alleged crimes,” said Marcus.

The mobs at the doors whispered this astonishing exchange to those behind them, and the message was spread.

“By the gods, read the roll to him,” exclaimed Sulla, gesturing down to Julius who rose with majesty and spread out a scroll, holding it high.

In a resounding voice Julius intoned, “Cato Servius, prisoner, is accused of high treason against the State, against Lucius Cornelius Sulla, of subversion, of seeking the overthrow of lawful government, of insurrection, and incitement to riot, of violent and extreme prejudice against the people of Rome, of contempt of society and authority, and of malice.”

Sulla listened. The Senate listened. The soldiers and the people listened. Marcus had bowed his head at the beginning of the reading and he kept it bowed when Julius was done and had seated himself again.

“Speak, Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said Sulla.

Marcus slowly raised his head in the dramatic manner in which Roscius had tutored him. He lifted his hands with Roscius’ own gesture of pleading before the gods. Roscius, standing with Noë ben Joel just inside the doors, watched critically, then nodded with satisfaction.

“I do not know of these crimes,” said Marcus, in rolling tones that reached even to many outside the doors. “But I know of a greater crime.”

A shadow ran over Sulla’s face. He leaned back in his chair. He pursed his lips and considered Marcus. Then he looked at the Senators and at the taut soldiers and then he saw Roscius in his magnificence. His face darkened. He looked down at Marcus contemptuously.

“Are you responsible, Cicero, for this tremendous assemblage in the Forum today? Are you so famous that such a multitude should hasten to hear you?”

“It is said, lord, that Romans love justice before all things, and they have come to hear justice. Law is like eternal granite. It is not an airy butterfly, a creature of the idle breezes, or a wanton of the whimsies and passions and vindictiveness and envies of little men. It is the soul of Rome. The people cherish it more dearly than their lives.”

Roscius nodded happily at Noë. “He speaks it well, for all that you wrote it,” he whispered to his friend.

“Then,” said Sulla, “this—throng—has gathered to celebrate Law.”

“Lord, this is a case of tremendous importance to the people of Rome, in whose name we are gathered here together.” Marcus’ voice rose without effort and penetrated far and wide, and like waves gathering sound and force the people murmured and then shouted far outside the Senate. “And as you, lord, have been so libeled—as it has been said—it has excited the attention of Romans.”

“You are ambiguous, Cicero,” said Sulla.

“I am but a modest lawyer,” said Marcus, in such mellifluous accents that they brought a flush of anger again to Sulla’s cheek. “I have some slight fame as an advocate. But it is you, lord, whose name has summoned them here.”

He looked at Sulla with solemn guilelessness. Sulla shifted on his buttocks. “You flatter me, Cicero. And I consider you a liar.”

Marcus bowed. “I shall not dispute you, though the accusation is unjust.”

The countless friends of Roscius, Noë, and Archias, looked for the arranged signal, and when they caught its unobtrusive appearance they raised their voices in an enormous bellow. “Hail, Cicero! Cicero! Cicero!” The shout spread to the farthermost reaches of the Forum, and it was caught up ecstatically even by those who had never heard Cicero’s name before and by those who stood a long distance from the Senate. The clamor of their great noise swept the Senate in billows of sound, and Sulla listened intently. Again, he leaned back in his chair and contemplated Marcus darkly.

“It is not my name they are screeching,” he said.

“I am overcome with confusion, lord.”

Marcus felt Servius move beside him, and he was afraid of the old soldier’s impatience and fearful that he would not much longer endure what he had reluctantly promised. He started nervously when Sulla addressed himself directly to Servius. “Cato,” he said abruptly, “are you responsible for the appearance of these old veterans of many years, and your own legion, in defiance of the orderly procedure of the law?”

“No, Lucius!” exclaimed the old soldier.

Marcus put his hand on Servius’ arm and said, “They have come as a tribute to their old commander, lord, and it is very moving, is it not?”

If Servius should blurt out, in his honesty, what must not be said, then all is lost, thought Marcus, and I with it. He tightened his fingers on Servius’ arm.

“I do not find it moving,” said Sulla, who had not missed the little play before him. “Have you attempted to coerce, the Senate, Cicero, with this appearance of my soldiers?”

“Lord!” said Marcus. “Who am I to command the military?”

“True,” said Sulla. His eyes slowly wandered to the soldiers, old and young, gathered at the doors and even within them. The soldiers were watching him with too strong an intensity. He recalled that that infernal actor, Roscius, whose actresses he frequently enjoyed, was a patron of old veterans and loved them dearly and provided for them what the government could not provide. He had built two small sanitoria for them, and paid for excellent surgeons and physicians. For a moment Sulla was moved. The national Treasury was bankrupt still. It would have given him gratification if he could have done for his old comrades what Roscius had done.

Sulla looked down at Julius, whose eyes were leaping with irresistible mirth. “You are the prosecutor, Caesar. Speak!”

Julius rose, every gesture elegant and confident. He waited until he had absolute quiet. Then he held a copy of Servius’ book high above his head so that all could see. He struck a statue-like attitude as he rotated on his heels; his long woolen robe was dyed purple, and he wore a wide belt of gilded leather encrusted with gems, and his boots were of purple leather lined with fur.

The merry face assumed an aspect of gravity, though the black eyes continued to twinkle. Julius looked down at the scribes who were busily writing on long scrolls. “Heed it all, lords,” said Julius to the Senators, “for this is most momentous. A book that rings with treason, written by the noble Cato Servius, once-beloved captain under General Sulla. With what gratitude has Servius repaid his ruler, his ancient government? He has denounced them! He has accused them of violence against the people of Rome, of tyranny, of oppression, of innumerable crimes, of obscenities committed in the name of the Constitution, of the perversion of our hallowed Constitution, of exigency and expediency, of cynical oportunism, of ruthless cruelties and suppression of freedom, of flagrantly interpreting our laws to their own advantage, of exciting hatred and envy in the mobs, of government by fiat and not by law!”

Marcus listened closely to Julius’ voice. An actor! thought Marcus, and in spite of all he felt himself smiling a little with that old weakening affection for his young friend. Then he started, for Julius was looking directly into his eyes, and the eyes flickered with humor.

The Senators murmured angrily; Sulla leaned back in his chair and again his hand half-concealed his cold and savage mouth.

“These are dangerous days!” cried Julius. “We have emerged from an era of tyranny, and I say this who am the nephew of old Marius, who was a murderer! Our noble dictator, Sulla, has restored the Constitution and the Republic, and there is no man of any learning or wisdom who can deny this truly!

“Yet, Cato Servius incontinently and recklessly, a man who has been a soldier nearly all his life and is, therefore, no authority on philosophy or politics or government, has seen fit to attack in all ignorance the heroic labors of Lucius Cornelius Sulla to restore to us all that we had lost under Marius, Cinna, and Carbo! Did he expect that in, so short a space of time that all that we had forfeited under tyrants could be completely restored? Apparently he believes in instant miracles, this man blind in more ways than one!”

He looked at the Senators compellingly. “Shall the edifice that was torn down in many years be rebuilt in a day? It is beyond mortal man’s most heroic efforts. If a man is a slave, it is arduous for him to learn to live again in the air of freedom. He must not be incited into the belief that chains and slavery can be overcome in an hour, or the stain oil his soul be cleared instantly. He must be taught freedom, as a child is taught his letters, and this is a painful labor which Sulla has undertaken.

“During this labor no excited voice must rise, no ignorant voice, no uncomprehending voice, or we shall fall into chaos again. But more than this, there is the aspect of treason in this book, beyond the mere incitement to riot and subversion, and treason is an old vice.”

He paused momentously, and Marcus took advantage of this silence to clap gently and to smile with irony. Instantly the attention, and the frowns, of the Senators were on him.

“Excellent!” said Marcus. “Treason is indeed an old vice, and it is protean. Wise is the man who recognizes it in its many forms. Cato Servius is one such.

“May I ask the noble Julius Caesar to read an excerpt from Servius’ book which most illustrates the point he is—attempting—to make?”

Julius hesitated. He glanced swiftly at Sulla, who made no move at all. Then he glanced at the Senators. “Why should I repeat passages from this book, when all are acquainted with it? It is needlessly stealing the time of this Senate—”

Marcus said, with mocking solemnity, “As the advocate of Cato Servius, I am permitted to ask questions even of the Senate.” He turned and faced the august body.

“Lords, are you all familiar with this book and its contents?”

The ranks of the Senators stirred, so that the chairs seemed a ripple of scarlet and white. Then an old Senator said with vexation, “We are familiar.”

Marcus smiled again. “Lord,” he said, addressing the old Senator, “for the sake of many in this assemblage who have not read the book, would you repeat or paraphrase one paragraph or sentence which particularly offended you?”

The old Senator flushed angrily. “I do not care to repeat treason, even if I did not write it myself.”

Marcus looked at his servant, Syrius, who had accompanied him, and whose black arms were filled with scrolls. Marcus impressively took one, and then unrolled it slowly. He scrutinized it. Then he bowed first to Sulla, and then to the Senate.

“Lords, with your pardon I will read you a section of the ancient law, still potent, still living, devised by our Founding Fathers whose memory we reverence and for whose souls we pray in our temples, and whose eternal guidance we implore.

“‘A man shall not be accused lightly by hearsay, or by intemperate accusations. The witnesses against him, the judges who shall judge him, must at all times present irrefutable evidence and direct testimony, and the judges shall rule constantly that only such testimony be admitted to the books of the scribes and to the attention of magistrates and executioners of the law.’”

Marcus bowed again to the old Senator. “Lord, you have not presented such testimony. We are here to judge evidence given impartially and intelligently, without regard for personalities or sentiments or prejudice.” He paused, and looked at Sulla. “That is the Law.”

The Senators muttered loudly and furiously. Sulla dropped his hand and said with indifference, “That law has not been abrogated, Cicero.” He raised his hand to cover his mouth so that his dark smile should be hidden.

Marcus bowed very low. “I thank you, lord, for this information imparted to the Senate.” Here he was interrupted by shouts of “Insolence!” from many Senators, who half-rose in their seats. Sulla was unmoved. He turned his light eyes upon the Senators and that glance quelled them, and they sank muttering into their seats again.

Swallowing a throb of exultation in his throat, Marcus said to Julius, “Caesar, it is apparent that you have read this book, and apparently you are one of the few. May I impose upon you by requesting that you read a section you found particularly objectionable?”

Again Julius hesitated, and he looked at Sulla. Sulla nodded. Julius glanced at Marcus. He turned some pages in the book. Dead silence filled the chamber. Then Julius began to read. Marcus halted him. “I must beg that you read louder, Caesar.”

“Louder!” cried a musical voice near the door, and Marcus recognized it as the voice of Roscius.

Julius shrugged. His expressive eyes danced madly in his grave face. He lifted his voice and read:

“‘Worthiness resides in no man, and let that nation beware who discovers itself regarding its temporal ruler as a divinity, fawning upon him, delighting in news of his comings and goings, reverencing him, listening to his words as though they rolled down from Olympus with the sound of thunder, ostracizing those who differ from him, raising up their voices like trumpets hailing all that he does and deluding themselves that he is superior to those who have elevated him by vote or in the name of emergency.’”

Marcus listened soberly, watching the darkening faces of the Senators, and again he felt a throb of exultation. He let a little silence dwell after Julius had concluded his reading. Then he said to the Senators, “Do you object to that, lords?”

“It is an attack on Sulla! The implication is obvious!” cried the old Senator.

Marcus shrugged. He said, “I trust the scribes have recorded that reading in full.”

The scribes nodded. Sulla bit his lips to prevent a harsh laugh from bursting from his throat. Marcus spread his hands helplessly and made his eyes wide.

“How was it possible for Cincinnatus, the Father of his Country, who said that before the new Senate of Rome four hundred years ago, to know of Lucius Cornelius Sulla, and to refer to him?”

A great laugh burst involuntarily from the soldiers and the crowds near the door, and the mobs outside caught it up though they did not know the cause. Pompey tugged at Julius’ robe and whispered angrily, “Is it so?” “It is so,” whispered Julius, grinning.

When the Chamber was quiet again Marcus looked at the nonplused Senators and said kindly, “But certainly this majestic body recognized the words of the great Cincinnatus to whom they daily offer their reverence and to whom they have dedicated their duties?”

Not a Senator replied, but the many eyes fixed on Marcus were inimical.

Sulla said languidly, “There is no treason in that quotation which Servius has used. We honor the words of Cincinnatus.”

“And I,” said Marcus, “honor you, lord, for your respect for the Father of our Country.” He looked at Julius. “Pray continue.”

Julius by now did not know what to do. He was inwardly hilarious, for he loved a joke above all things. He looked at the formidable Sulla for a signal, but Sulla’s expression was not to be read. So Julius began to quote again:

“‘There are times of dire emergency when power is given to one man, but that time must be limited and that man’s days scanned sleeplessly lest he be devoured by ambition. Should he become overweening and tyrannical, should he say, “I am the Law,” then you must depose him at once for his own sake as well as your own. For now that man stands on the threshold of death and all bloodiness and is a dreadful danger to all that lives, including himself. Never permit him to say to you, “I am needed by my country more than any other man, therefore, you must not dismiss me.” You have corrupted him and he should be removed and avoided, and left to rediscover his soul in silence or—in exile.’”

“Treason!” shouted the Senate with one voice.

Sulla raised his hand and said wearily, “That is also a quotation from Cincinnatus’ speech before the Senate.”

They subsided, but glared upon Marcus, who bowed again to Sulla.

Marcus spoke delicately to the Senate, “Surely this august body does not believe that Cincinnatus, dead four hundred years, had precognition of Sulla! If they believe so, then there is secret treason in their hearts.”

Julius spoke. “Let us leave the divine words of Cincinnatus in peace for the moment. We are all familiar with those deathless words.” He coughed.

“Continue, then, Caesar, with other readings,” said Marcus.

Julius coughed again, riffled the pages of the book. He darted a look at Marcus which was inscrutable. He read:

“‘If the existence of the state is alone to be considered, then it would seem that all, or some at least, of these claims are just; but if we take into account a good life, then, as I have already said, education and virtue have superior claims among men. As, however, those who are equal in one thing ought not to have an equal share in all, nor those who are unequal in one thing to have an inequal share in all, it is certain that all forms of government which rests on either of these principles are perversions. All men have a claim in a certain sense, as I have already admitted, but all have not an absolute claim. The rich rightly claim because they have a greater share in the land—and land is the common element of the state—they are more trustworthy in general in contracts. The free claim under the same title as the noble, for they are nearly akin. For the noble are citizens in a truer sense than the common or ignoble man, and good birth is always valued in a man’s own home and country. Another reason is that those who are sprung from better ancestors are likely to be better men, for nobility is excellence of race. Virtue, too, may be truly said to have a claim, for justice has been acknowledged by us to be a social virtue, and it implies all others.’”

The Senators looked at each other uncomfortably, for all were rich and many were patricians. It was obvious that they agreed with this quotation. Nevertheless, the old Senator lifted up his hoarse voice and said, “That is defiance of the democracy which Sulla has established, and, therefore, it is treason!”

“Treason by whom, lord?” asked Marcus.

The old Senator regarded him with fuming hatred. “By Servius.”

Marcus shook his head sadly. “Servius was merely quoting Aristotle, from that noble philosopher’s Politics.”

The old Senator was silent. He looked to Sulla for a gesture, but Sulla remained impassive. Marcus turned to him. “Noble Sulla, is there a law now in Rome which prohibits the study of Aristotle’s Politics?”

“I revere Aristotle,” said Sulla. “You know, Cicero, that there is no such law.”

Again the few gave a signal near the door, and the crowd bellowed and the Chamber was filled with the voice of their enthusiastic clamoring. “Hail Cicero! Cicero! Cicero!”

Marcus waited with modestly downcast eyes until the uproar subsided. Then he said to Julius, “Pray continue with your reading, noble Caesar.”

Julius said, “Servius tells of a mythological tyrant, who posed as the friend of the common man and democracy, but who in his heart despised both the man and the democracy. He appeared before the multitude with his military scars, and appealed for a restoration of the law, and the populace emotionally voted him a great bodyguard of soldiers, for the protection of himself and the State. The mythological tyrant, then, exultantly proceeded to enslave all the people for his own splendor and power. He promised the greatest good to the greatest number—and went on to subject all to his ruthless and insane ambition, and to plunge his nation into the most abject misery.”

The old Senator cried, “He maligns Sulla!”

Marcus reached out to Syrius for his own copy of Servius’ book and affected, with frowns, to be searching for the passage. Then he sighed in relief, and looked at Julius, and he raised his brows.

“‘Mythological,’ Caesar? Ah, has your education been neglected? Servius invented no such character. He was speaking of Peisistratus, the tyrant of Athens, dead these five hundred years!”

Again the young and old soldiers burst into loud and derisive laughter, and the mobs, hearing this, laughed delightedly also though not understanding.

“Surely, Caesar,” said Marcus, “you do not equate Peisistratus with our noble Sulla?”

“Why, then, does Servius?”

Marcus again studied the book, then closed it. “He does not! He merely recounts history and permits the reader to draw his own conclusions. The Law of Rome has no objection to men reading what they will and drawing their own conclusions. Or do you, Caesar, wish to control the minds of our free people by censoring what they read and deciding what books they must read?”

“Tyranny!” shouted the people near the doors, and Marcus smiled at Julius.

Sulla said, “There is no censorship of what a man may read in Rome, for we believe in freedom of publication and there are no guards here who read over a man’s shoulder. Our law prohibits censorship.”

Marcus bowed almost to his knees. “I thank you, lord.”

The Senators stared in dismay at Sulla, who smiled enigmatically.

“However,” said Sulla, “we do prohibit treason.”

“You consider, lord,” said Marcus, “that Cincinnatus and Aristotle and the history of old Greece are treasonable?”

Sulla, for the first time, openly smiled. “Do not bait me, Cicero,” he said.

He looked at Julius. “What else?”

Julius, who had seen Sulla’s smile, was greatly relieved. He said, in a voice filled with affected irritability, “It appears that almost all of Servius’ book is composed of quotations from worthier men and from great patriots and philosophers, whom Rome reveres.”

A deep murmur ran through the Chamber. The Senators stared at Sulla, who was rubbing his cheek and faintly smiling again.

Marcus said, “Is it prohibited to a man to quote honored sources?

“Yes! For it is the Law that if he does so he must give credit to those sources! This Cato Servius has not done. He has written in a fashion that implies he is the author of these noble utterances. Therefore, he is guilty!”

He raised his arms in a gesture of anguish and mourning, then slowly dropped them and let his head decline, as if in remorse, on his breast.

He said, “I have come to denounce my client of a crime. Plagiarism. It is forbidden under the Law of Rome. I ask that he be adequately punished.”

Sulla leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and all waited breathlessly for his words. But many moments passed and none could read his face.

Marcus spoke again, “Woe unto me, that I have a client who has broken the law concerning plagiarism! Had I known of this crime before I should not have defended him! What is the punishment? Let me read it to you, lords: ‘The offender shall be fined from one hundred to one thousand gold sesterces!’ I leave the judgment in your merciful hands.” He bowed humbly to the Senate, and then to Sulla, and then wiped his eyes with his kerchief. Sulla watched him, and his throat vibrated as if by withheld mirth. A signal was given at the doors, and the mighty mob laughed also with good nature.

Sulla sat forward in his chair and gazed at the Senate. “We have a serious infraction of the law here before us. Senators, what is your judgment?”

They stared at him, and saw his strange smile. Then they stared at each other.

Sulla then said to Julius, “What is your opinion, Caesar?”

The subtle Julius kept his face straight. “Cato Servius is guilty of plagiarism. Therefore, lord, I suggest that his book be seized until such time as he give credit to his sources. Moreover, he should be punished. Permit me, lord, to leave in your hands the extent of the legal punishment.”

Sulla said, “The law is not in my hands. It resides with the Senate. Lords, what is your judgment?”

The old Senator said, “Two hundred gold sesterces fine, noble Sulla.”

Sulla said, “It is done.”

“As Cato Servius is not guilty of treason, but only of unlawful plagiarism, I order that his lands and fortune be restored to him, and that he be set free.”

Marcus nudged his client. Servius started. He turned his blind sockets on his once-beloved general, and his face was torn with emotions. Marcus nudged him again.

Then Servius said in a bitter and despairing voice, “I yield not, unless Sulla, my old general, forgives my—crime! Otherwise, I shall fall on my sword.”

All waited, with held breath. Sulla gazed at Marcus, and Marcus returned that gaze blandly. Then Sulla rose from his chair and descended the steps with slow majesty. He reached Servius, and paused, while all watched and craned their necks. Like all Romans he loved drama. He extended his arms and embraced Servius. He kissed Servius’ cheek. And then he kissed it again and the terrible light eyes filled with tears.

“I command you, Servius, not to fall upon your sword for any crime you have committed! You are under my protection henceforth from yourself and from all others. I forgive you the crime of plagiarism. Go in peace.”

Marcus’ friends again gave the signal, and now the crowd screamed, “Hail, Sulla! Sulla! Sulla! Hail, Cicero! Hail! Hail!”

Servius leaned his head in prostration on Sulla’s shoulder, as if undone. He said in a voice only Sulla heard: “You are still a tyrant, and the enemy of my country.”

Sulla whispered back to him, “Blame me not, Servius, for the people willed it so. On them the curse and the imprecations, and not on me. I am but their creature.”

Servius lifted his head suddenly, and his face was moved. For the first time he returned Sulla’s embrace and kissed his cheek, in sadness, in understanding pity.