CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“I agree with you that the Republic is lost,” said the young politician Publius Clodius, surnamed Pulcher. “And I agree with you that the future of Rome belongs to the Caesares. It is regrettable. My fathers believed in the Republic.”

“When a nation becomes so demoralized and corrupt and angerless as Rome, then that nation is lost forever,” said Marcus. “Then come the Caesares.”

“The man on horseback. Yes,” said Clodius. He was a lively and witty young man, slender and not very tall, with a dark and somewhat reckless face and very brilliant black eyes. “The man does not leap on horseback by himself; the people offer their hands to his ascent. So Caesar will leap one of these days. I can think of worse men.”

Marcus eyed him curiously. “If it came to a contest between Caesar and me, whom would you support?”

“I love you, Marcus, but the cause of Cicero is lost. I prefer to continue living.” He paused and eyed Marcus with his own curiosity. “Why do you continue to oppose the Fates?”

“To paraphrase you, because I prefer to continue living—with myself.”

“Then you have hope?”

But Marcus shook his head. “I have no hope. But I may have the illusion of all soldiers in a lost cause—that there will be reinforcements.” Marcus was beginning to wonder and just faintly to hope. He was now Praetor of Rome. Clodius said, “You remind me of Hector, the noble Trojan hero, who, though knowing his country was wrong, and had done great evil, yet fought for her with patriotic fervor, and hoped to save her—though he knew it was impossible—from her inevitable fate. Are you ambitious, Cicero?”

“Only for my country, and her honor,” said Marcus.

“Old-fashioned words,” said Clodius. “These are modern times.”

“They always are, Clodius. Why do men deceive themselves that the past is not the present, the future the past? Every age has shouted, ‘We are a new era!’ Yet it is always the same, for man does not change. Has it not been said that the nation that does not learn from history is doomed to repeat its mistakes? Ages yet unborn shall say, ‘None other was ever like us.’ But they shall be as Rome.”

Clodius smiled indulgently. “Then there is no hope for man?”

Marcus hesitated. “Not unless God gives us a new way and a new path for the future, and reveals Himself.”

Clodius, that young man, thought to himself: Cicero is aging, and he speaks as all the aging men speak. He thought of his beauteous sister, Clodia, and amusedly wondered if Cicero ever forgot his griefs in her smooth white arms. It is possible, for has he not now published a book of poetry over which there has been much controversy and much fame for him? A man is not moved to poetry of such brilliance when he is in despair. He is a paradox.

It was then that Clodius, who had his own secret ambitions, began to feel uneasy concerning Marcus. Paradoxes, though exciting to consider, were not reliable in their conduct, and not predictable, especially when they were both prudent and poets. Clodius went to Julius Caesar and said, “Our friend, Cicero, is a paradox.”

Julius laughed. “Honest men are always so to men like us. They belong to no category we can name. So we say to ourselves: He must be assassinated, or destroyed in some other manner, or rendered impotent.” Julius reflected for a moment, still smiling. “Do you not know that both the patricians and the people trust him? Is that not a paradox in itself? I am sorry for these few honest men, who believe that honesty will commend itself to the admiration of a nation.”

“He seems inconsistent to me,” said Clodius.

“Are we not all?” said Julius. “Man, by his very nature, is inconsistent, a friend today, an enemy tomorrow, a lover of justice in the morning, and suborned in the evening. Why do we insist on consistency, we who are the inconsistent?”

“Cicero would say, because at the core of life all is consistent, and we echo it though we betray it.”

“You are becoming a philosopher,” said Julius, and yawned. “An hour with Cicero is enough to make one doubt his ambitions and the purpose of his life. This is disconcerting. Let us avoid our dear Cicero, and consider what we desire.”

“Did I not work endlessly to make you an aedile?” asked Marcus angrily of his brother, Quintus. “You know my bias against military men. You grow in ill temper every day. Is it that Pomponia exasperates you? What woman does not exasperate her husband! You have a son. You are rich, due to my efforts, and, I must admit, to the advice my Terentia gave you concerning investments. What is it that you wish?”

“I am a simple man. Therefore, I am akin to the simple animals,” said Quintus with a scowl. “I do not think you are safe, my brother. I lift my nose and sniff the air. I am full of unease. You think me ambitious, but I am ambitious only to protect you, you who are dearer to me than wife or son.”

“Do I not know this?” said Marcus, greatly moved. “But still, you have not explained your bad temper. Once you were the most indulgent of young men, the most smiling and calm. Now you pace floors. You remind me of our grandfather, and no longer of our dear mother.”

Quintus ruffled the thick black curls on his head then flung his arms wide in despair. “I do not know!” he exclaimed. “But affairs in Rome become more chaotic every day. They are more complex, more inscrutable, and I am a simple man! Why do not matters remain simple, black and white, good and evil?”

“They do not remain that way because they never were,” said Marcus.

“Once you believed that good order and good principle and virtue among men would conquer everything,” said Quintus, baffled.

Marcus answered sadly, “True. However, these are subjective terms, the terms of the soul. The objective world does not conform to the soul of man, and whose is the fault? In the meantime, control your temper, or someone will murder you.”

Marcus put his hands over his face. “I grow more confused each day. But still, I must work out my own destiny, for I have no other.”

Quintus frowned. “What destiny has our father? He grows more wan day by day, more removed. He is a shade in my house, and Pomponia complains. He hardly knows he is a grandfather, and rarely speaks to my young son. What troubles him? He is not a complex man like you, Marcus.”

“And how do you know that?” said Marcus, gloomily, and with that inner spasm of pain he always felt when his father was mentioned.

“He believes you compromise,” said Quintus.

“He never compromised because he never took a stand,” said Marcus, with anger of his own. “Do you think it easy for me to endure Caesar and Crassus and Pompey, and all their friends? No. But they exist in my world and I must endure them.”

“Including Catilina?”

Marcus rose abruptly to his feet and his fine eyes flashed on his brother. “No.”

Quintus felt appeased, though he did not know why. Then he scowled once more. “I am worried about my young son. He is devious, and not to be trusted. He smiles disarmingly. I am afraid he is subtle, and exigent.”

Marcus knew this was true. The young Quintus slipped agilely through one’s grasp. So Marcus pitied his ingenuous brother, and thought of his own daughter, Tullia, with passionate relief. Marcus said, “I will soon seek to be Consul of Rome.” He hoped to divert his brother’s thoughts.

Quintus eyed him with sudden grimness. “Do you not know the rumor? It is said that Catilina will be Consul of Rome. Who can oppose him, he who has the mob in the palm of his hand?”