CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Marcus did not know that he was the virtuous façade of white marble that concealed the activities of Crassus, Julius Caesar, Pompey the Magnus, Catilina and many others. The people looked on his integrity and remembered that he would not be a Curule Aedile if it were not for Crassus and his friends. Therefore, Crassus and the others had integrity also. The people said wisely to each other, “Does not the fable say that birds of a feather flock together? Our noble Cicero flocks with our rulers. Therefore, they too, must be virtuous.”

“I have heard,” said Crassus to Julius, “that your Cicero is making long and extensive inquiries concerning Catilina. In truth, his activities in this direction grow stronger daily.”

“So I have heard also,” Julius replied. “He began this many years ago. It is natural. There were Livia and Fabia. Marcus never forgets.”

“If he discovers—” said Crassus.

“We must be adroit, concerning Catilina,” said Julius. “He wearies me, though he is necessary to us. Let us show him no public sympathy, however we show it in private. Then we can disentangle ourselves, to our popularity, if the necessity arises.”

“You are very wise for a young man,” said Crassus. “Let us do as you say.”

Julius smiled at him winningly and with gratitude. Had Crassus known his thoughts Julius would not have survived many hours longer. He said to Pompey, “Our hour is near.” He said to Catilina, “In the name of Venus, your favorite deity, refrain from public scandal. Do not be impatient. I tell you that we are on the eve of great events.”

“Something smells loudly in the city,” said Noë to Marcus. “As a Jew I have perceptiveness, and premonitions. If we had not been so endowed we should have perished long ago.”

“What!” said Marcus, with a smile. “Are you gathering together what is portable?”

“Do not smile,” said Noë. “I am thinking of that very thing.”

“You do not trust Rome,” said Marcus.

“I do not trust ambitious nations. But when was a nation not ambitious?”

“Then, you do not trust men.”

“Do you?” asked Noë.

Marcus considered, then shook his head. “No.” He contemplated this sadly and repeated, “No.” A few moments later he added, “I remember what Aeschylus says in Agamemnon: ‘God leads us on the way of wisdom’s everlasting law, that truth is only learnt by suffering it.’”

Noë nodded his head and remarked, “So, you have suffered it. As for me, I shall take my family to Jerusalem.”

“What shall I do for the next games? Roscius has left for Alexandria.”

“You will not take my advice,” said Noë. “I suggest you retire to Arpinum.”

“At my age?”

“Does a man need a gray beard to be wise?”

“I must serve my country,” said Marcus. He paused. “All men are tragic. Evil is universal. The Greeks have said it and I repeat it. But there is nobility in tragedy. Man is mysteriously cursed. But he rises above his tragedy, and the curse, because he has the courage to oppose evil. The most terrible temptation we have is to leave the fight. For that, God will not forgive us.”

He smiled faintly at Noë. “Do not leave me, friend.” He became sad again. “Socrates told his friends: ‘Some of you will say to me, “But surely, Socrates, you can mind your own business and thus escape the wrath of government!” But I cannot. Life unexamined is not worth living.’ And the least that must be expected of us is that we must be men.”

“If any event, you are no hair-splitter and a maker of paradoxes, like Socrates. Hence, you avoid exasperating those who could ruin you.”

Marcus reflected on this. He recalled that he had been accused of sitting on two stools at the same time. “You are implying that I now compromise,” he said to Noë. “Yes, that is true and sometimes I fear it is a weakness. However, I can truly say that I admit to compromise only when no injustice will be done to either disputants. I have a loathing for brute violence, and that may be weakness also.”

He had large offices in one of the great public buildings near the Forum. He was encountering the most irritating people who can afflict a politician with any conscience: bureaucrats and those seeking his influence in government contracts. “A bureaucrat,” he wrote to his friend, Atticus, “is the most despicable of men, though he is needed as vultures are needed, but one hardly admires vultures whom bureaucrats so strangely resemble. I have yet to meet a bureaucrat who was not petty, dull, almost witless, crafty or stupid, an oppressor or a thief, a holder of a little authority in which he delights, as a boy delights in possessing a vicious dog. Who can trust such creatures? But nations excrete them when they become complex.

“As for the manufacturers and merchants and road and sewer builders and the architects of aqueducts, the suppliers of military material, the raisers of buildings, and all others who supply government, they offer bribes for my influence. But I approve only that which is best. You may consider this folly to an extent, and so do many of these men. I live pleasantly without their approval.”

He was careful, however, to keep the subject of bribery from Terentia. His wife was virtuous and an “old” Roman and upheld morals and integrity in private life. But Marcus doubted that she would consider the acceptance of bribes as heinous on the part of a politician.

When some men complained to Crassus of various matters which offended their probity—men too influential and important to be quietly assassinated—Crassus would answer, “Look upon my friend, Cicero. Would I be so benign to him, and so approving, if I were an evil man? Evil does not admire the good; it only destroys it.”

Marcus acquired many friends while he was Curule Aedile, but he discounted their protestations of loyalty and affection. Amid the hubbub of his work and his law cases and his clients he found life pressing. He had to attend public dinners in honor of various politicians and Senators and patricians, for he did not intend to live and die an aedile. He was also often feasted by Crassus and Julius Caesar and Pompey. He admitted at one time that scoundrels were frequently more engaging and amusing than virtuous men, and far better company. This offended his sense of rightness. Scoundrels should be repulsive, the virtuous charming. The reverse was proved only too often. He recalled what Noë had once quoted to him: “The children of darkness are wiser in their generation than the children of light.” He would add to himself, “And more attractive.” The dark children were not hounded by conscience and therefore could be exuberant and merry. But the children of light wore heavy countenances and grieved over the evil in the world. This did not make for frolic and the more amusing things of life. “Let us hope they receive a reward in an everlasting existence. They certainly do not receive it here.”

There were many times when an intense weariness overcame him. He recalled what Aristotle had said: “A wise man does not give his life lightly, for he knows that there are few things for which it is worth dying. Nevertheless, in periods of great crisis the wise man will give up his life, for under certain circumstances it is not worth living.”

He was aware even more than Noë was aware that some evil was deeply stirring in Rome, which bore an enigmatic face and could not be pursued and exposed. It was like a shadow seen only through the corner of the eye, which when swung upon fully disappeared and was not to be seen at all. There was a haunting movement in Rome, at once urgent and silent, like the movements of rats deep in cellars. The atmosphere in the city was pent. Yet to the facile gaze all was prosperous and calm, and the populace said the Great Games had never been better. All was complacency and busyness and laughter and much coming and going. Marcus knew this was deception, and a deliberate deception, but on whose part he did not know.

“You are growing grayer,” said Terentia. “You work too hard.”

“You spent but four weeks on the island this year, my son,” said Helvia, who was now very plump and solid and whose hair was the color of silver.

He established the first State Library in Rome, based on the tremendous museum in Alexandria. “An informed people will be suspicious of politicians,” he wrote to Atticus, when asking for donations of manuscripts and books for the library. Later, he was to laugh drearily at this naïve statement. A literate people, he was to discover, made a larger public for the deceivers and mountebanks. Literacy did not guarantee discrimination, skepticism or wisdom. When, following his example, provinces also established libraries he was to say, “There is much to be said for the lack of learning in the barbarian. Then he must use his wits and not books. He hears with an innocent ear not confounded by a babble of words.”