“I have taught you well to be observant,” said Scaevola. He reflected in silence again. “I do not recognize that ring; I have not seen it myself. Yet it was so valuable to the owner that he still wore it when attacking you. He would not be without it. Therefore, he is a devotee of Diana, the noctural one. Hum. He is no Asiatic; he is a Roman. You saw no other details of their faces but their mouths? Could it be that you should have recognized any of them?”
“No. I heard their voices, and none was familiar.”
“And they wished not to do a clean murder, which might be investigated by me, but an apparent accident brought upon yourself by an injudicious dip in the river. Could it be possible that it was some enemy of my own?”
Marcus thought of this dubiously. Then he shook his head. “They thought they would kill me, and so they spoke freely. They did not mention your name, nor the name of anyone else. But they mocked me with my own name. I, alone, was the object of their intentions.”
“Incredible,” muttered Scaevola. Then he slapped his knee and laughed obscenely. “I know! It is that infernal poetry of yours which you have published! It enraged a true devotee of the arts!”
Marcus did not think this humorous, and he frowned. He said with stiffness, “I have thought of Senator Curius, whom I offended so deeply nearly a year ago.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Scaevola, “Curius is a scoundrel, but he is also a patrician. He does not order the murder of mice, such as you. Moreover, he knows that I am your mentor, your protector. A poor and insignificant lawyer would be regarded by him, if he thought of you at all, as one regards a gnat.”
Marcus’ natural vanity was offended. He said, “My friend, Noë ben Joel, has written me that it is unwise to attract the attention of government, or to make it aware of you.”
He waited for Scaevola’s burst of ridicule and his exclamation, “And how have you attracted so malignant a notice?” But, to his surprise, Scaevola’s broad smile disappeared and Scaevola’s brilliant little blue eyes fixed themselves keenly upon him in deep thought. At last he said as if to himself, “They will soon know, if they do not even now, that you escaped, that you are alive. Therefore, your danger is still extreme.”
“But why?” cried Marcus. “What have I done?”
Scaevola turned to his table and began to pick up books and lengths of parchment and papyrus, and pretended to study them as if forgetting Marcus entirely. Marcus waited. Scaevola belched, rubbed his ears, pulled his lip, scratched under his armpits, his great gross body billowing under the short and deplorable tunic he insisted on wearing. Then the old man pretended to start, and become aware of Marcus again.
“What! Are you still here? You have a client waiting.”
When Marcus, nonplused, began to rise, Scaevola waved him down. “I am not done with you. How many slaves are in your house in Rome?”
“Only four, and all of them are old men, members of our family, long in our service. My will sets them free with an income—if ever I have any.”
“You have no young muscular slave, deft with dagger, strangling hands, or a sword?”
“No. Not even in Arpinum. We are rural people, peaceful and harmless.”
“It is apparent, my dear young fool, that someone does not consider you harmless at all! He considers you potentially most dangerous. Whom, potentially, do you threaten, now or in the future?”
“No one,” said Marcus readily.
Scaevola made a mouth of disbelief and vexation. “You are such an innocent. Potentially, you are extremely dangerous to someone, and he would have you dead. It is someone powerful. You have not irritated our young Julius, have you?”
Marcus smiled. “No. We are the dearest of friends.”
“Do not underrate him. Not long ago he publicly demonstrated his epilepsy. He spoke mysteriously of a strange vision to everyone who would listen, but he would not enlarge on the vision. He now goes about with a most abstracted air.”
“He was always an actor,” said Marcus.
“There is no one so dangerous as an actor who is not employed openly as an actor. The most brilliant and malign of tyrants have been gifted mountebanks. I am exasperated. Someone wishes you dead, by an apparent accident. Therefore, it is suspected that you have powerful friends who must not be offended and seek revenge. What powerful friends do you have? The situation must be remedied. You must have many powerful friends. I will give a dinner for you. I have an excellent cook, a Syrian, who does remarkable things with grape leaves. He stuffs them with an exotic mixture which makes the palate delirious with joy. He is no Roman chef. Therefore, my table is always honored by important men.
“You are under my protection. I will persuade others to protect you. In the meantime, you need a guard.” Scaevola raised his voice in a bellow and a young male slave hurriedly appeared, a Nubian black as night, and tall and powerful and armed. Scaevola pointed to Marcus. “Syrius,” he said, “behold your new master. Leave him not for an instant, anywhere. Sleep at the door of his cubiculum. Keep your dagger in readiness at all times.”
Marcus looked at Syrius with dismay, and calculated the amount of food he would consume, and the state of the harder of the house on the Carinae. Syrius bowed to him deeply, lifted the hem of his tunic and kissed it in a sign of complete obedience.
“How can I feed him?” asked Marcus, bluntly.
“Syrius is a rascal, and a bettor. He will soon have all the slaves on the Carinae, and the masters, too, betting with him on the races and the games. He inevitably prospers. Like a Roman, he lives off the available land. Force him to share his ill-gotten gains with you; you will find yourself in possession of some luxuries.”
Scaevola waved at Marcus as if vexed. “Why do you devour so much of my time? Go, both of you, to your office, together. Syrius will stand at your side, and that will be most impressive. There is a client waiting, a small, miserable divorce case. Hereafter, to suit your new status, my Marcus, I will refer more elaborate cases to you, though it will cost me a pretty penny.”
For the first time Marcus was nervous. He had thought he would be safe in Rome. But Scaevola had disagreed. The hidden murderer would become more bold. Marcus was grateful for the presence of Syrius, whom he had always liked, and who was already devoted to him. But how explain his acquisition to Helvia? She must be enlightened, unfortunately.
The attempted murder remained a mystery. And Marcus always looked at the hands of men for a serpentine ring.
It was summer again, and the Social War continued sporadically all over Italy. But the Romans had lived long with war and accepted the stringencies and inconveniences of their lives as a matter of course, grumbling and fatalistic. Fatalism was not part of the Roman nature, which was pragmatic and materialistic and expedient and optimistic. Marcus felt with alarm that the nature of his countrymen had already begun to deteriorate in that it had apparently accepted an Eastern philosophy now, and he recalled that many wise men had been concerned about this in the near past.
As for himself, he doggedly pursued his law career. More and more magistrates became acquainted with his strong and mellifluous voice, his air of integrity and authority, his manner which conveyed that he honestly believed in the innocence of his clients.
One day Scaevola brought him a new client. The old pontifex maximus said to him, with an air of contempt, “Here is a strange one for you. I cannot bring myself to defend him, but your devious mind, it is possible, will find some reason for your own defending.”
The man’s name was Casinus. He was middle-aged and of a sturdy and obstinate appearance, and his clothing though of good quality, considering these days, was not elegant. He sat down before Marcus and studied him with an air of rebellion and suspicious challenge. It was evident he did not consider him of much consequence, seeing that Marcus was thin and slender and had a mild expression and did not look belligerent. He said, “I doubt if you can help me.”
“Tell me about it, Casinus,” said Marcus, and gave the other all his
attention.
The man muttered restively, and moved in the chair and frowned. Then he burst out: “I hate this war! I have lost a son and two brothers in a fraternal struggle. While we quarrel among ourselves and drain our blood and decimate Roman ranks, our enemies abroad deride us and wait for our destruction. But, it is a war for freedom, and my heart is with those who so fight. Why is it not possible for our government to come to terms with our brothers, and grant them true liberty and equality, as once we knew?”
Marcus gazed at him reflectively. He said, “I have asked myself that question many times and have found no answer. But there are evil men amongst us who promote dissension for gain or ambition. What is the fate of Rome to them? However, let us judge your own case. What is wrong?”
Casinus owned a manufactory which made fanciful things of all metals, from copper and tin to brass and silver and gold. Until the Social War he had prospered, contriving objects from the most intricate and valuable jewelry to plowshares and cooking vessels. He employed forty able craftsmen. He had no objection to making implements of war to order for the government, from shields and lances to the short-sword and daggers and armor. It was part of his business.
“I am the best in Rome,” he said proudly. “There are others, but none can match me; my furnaces are beyond compare. I own several mines here and abroad. Therefore, what I make is much desired. For several years I have been in great demand in Rome; the government conscripted many fine workmen for my manufactory. I paid them excellent wages. But still, I regarded the implements of war as only one of my arts, and not the most pleasing to me. After all, I am an artist.”
Then, several weeks ago he had been ordered by the tribunes, and even by Cinna himself, through a bureaucrat, to cease the production of all but war material, and to concentrate on that alone.
“My men have been trained by me over many long years of apprenticeship, Master. There is none to compare with them in artistry and design and beauty of concept. The noblest ladies wear their creations; their hands are delicate, their eyes preternaturally keen. To set them manufacturing rude articles of war would ruin them. But the government has demanded that these artisans, exquisite and profound craftsmen and artists, go into the smoking manufactory and labor rudely, stiffening the fine muscles of their fingers, burning their hands irredeemably and callusing them beyond repair. Surely, there are coarse workers the government can send me! If art is destroyed, is not a nation’s soul destroyed also? The government will not listen. I will not obey!” shouted Casinus, his broad face flushing with rage and disgust.
He flung a papyrus on the table before Marcus, and Marcus saw the great eagle seal of Roman power waxed upon it. Marcus studied the peremptory order. Then he turned in his chair and brought down a book of law and opened it. He read thoughtfully for some time. He said at last, “It is written in the law that no free Roman citizen shall be conscripted against his will to do anything he does not desire, with the exception of duty in the armed forces or during great emergencies when the national existence is at stake.”
“I know that, Master! But there have been exceptions. A competitor of mine, one Veronus, has been exempted from that law; his wife inherited a fortune. I do not suggest bribery, Master! I assert it! Veronus produced implements of war, as I do, but his jewelry shops have not been closed. Moreover, one of my foremen came to me and whispered that Veronus has already approached him with an offer of a large competence—and this was before I received my orders from the government! Is this just?”
The summer day was hot and Casinus, overcome with outrage and heat, wiped his face and hands with a big linen kerchief, then stared at Marcus with bulging eyes of wrath and indignation.
“My jewelers love my foreman. Moreover, they would follow him into the employment of Veronus, if only to preserve their distinction and their clever hands and their way of life. But I protest at this arbitrary command of my government, which is supposed to protect my liberty and my dignity and not to encroach upon them!”
“Hah,” said Marcus.
“I am willing to accept many more workmen and have them trained to make the materials of war. But I will not, I cannot, obey this demand that I send my artists into the pit and the foundry, to the destruction of their art and their livelihood in the future. As Veronus has been so successful in evading the precious law—through bribery, I swear—he will be in a position to command the market for all artifacts and jewelry later. I have even heard a rumor that if he gains my artists he will not send them into the murk and the blistering heat to make war materials, but will quietly let them pursue their trade, even during this war!”
Marcus thought a little. He said, “I should like to see that foreman of yours who was approached by Veronus.”
Casinus jumped to his feet. “He is here with me.” He ran to the outer door and called, and a moment later a tall, dark-faced and sombre man joined him, obviously nervous and alarmed. Casinus put his hand proudly on the man’s shoulder. “My foreman, Samos, a Greek of great skill and an artist beyond compare!”
Samos looked down at his long folded hands with an expression that betrayed his uneasiness. “Samos,” said Marcus, “you have been approached by one Veronus to join his manufactory?”
“Yes, Master,” the man muttered.
“You have been promised by Veronus, that you will continue to employ your art, and that the men who will go with you will also be left in peace?”
Samos hesitated. Marcus saw his fear. The man moistened his lips, glanced sideways at the stern Casinus, and murmured, “It is so.”
“You are a Roman citizen, Samos?”
“Yes, Master.”
“You do not desire to labor for Veronus?”
“No. But a man must preserve what is best in him, even if he must compromise to do so.”
“A hard choice,” said Marcus. “It is an evil situation.” He reflected again. “Samos, you will swear that Veronus approached you if we take this case to the magistrates?”
Fear flashed on the man’s dark face. “I am afraid of law and lawmakers, Master! I am afraid of lawyers; I know how devious they are. I wish to avoid controversy. There is only danger in it.”
“I agree,” said Marcus in a dry tone. “Nevertheless, if every citizen acted only on that conviction justice would die and chaos result, and there would be no law whatsoever, and no government. Was it not Aristotle himself, who said that only gods and madmen can live safely without the law?”
“I am a man of peace,” Samos repeated. His eyelashes became wet. “I am a loyal man, but I am afraid.”
“You will have more to fear, my Samos, than appearance before magistrates, if law collapses.”
“A noble sentiment,” said Samos, who was evidently a man of some culture. “But thousands have died in the past for noble sentiments, and what did it profit them?”
“It profited their children. You have children, Samos?”
The man nodded in misery.
“Then, as a father, you wish justice for them. What harm can come to you if you uphold the law in the case of Casinus, your employer?”
Samos sucked in his lips, and fright brightened his eyes. Marcus waited. Then Samos stammered desperately, “Veronus has hinted to me that he has much influence and if I refuse him it shall go ill with me, and I shall never be able to employ my trade again.”
Marcus frowned. “It is couched as a threat, but it is a reality nonetheless.” He considered while the two men watched him anxiously. Then he said, “I will take your case, Casinus. As for you, Samos, I will call you as a witness. I promise no harm will come to you.”
“Promises,” said Samos with gloom, “resemble the fruitless flowers of the wild cherry tree.”
Marcus went into Scaevola’s offices. “You are familiar with this case, lord. What is your advice?”
“Do not take it,” said Scaevola, promptly.
“Why not?”
Scaevola stared at him. “Do you wish another accident?”
&nbs
p; Marcus was astonished. “That is surely a non sequitur!”
“Is it?” Scaevola scowled. He sighed. “Never mind. You will take the case?”
“I have already done so.”
“I think you are a fool. However, I congratulate you, though it is apparent that you are doomed to die at an early age. Are these not evil times? Is not the government seizing more and more power? When you oppose government now, even in the smallest matter, you place yourself in the deepest danger.”
“Then you advise me to give up the practice of law?”
Scaevola slapped the top of his table violently. “There are thousands of cases to take that do not dispute with government! Do all your cases come to you with a parchment on which is affixed the seal of authority? No!”
“I have taken this case,” Marcus repeated.
Scaevola groaned and lifted his eyes to the ceiling.
“You were always obdurate. Never let Syrius leave your side, not even in the courtroom. And before you appear in court, enlighten me as to what you wish me to say at your funeral pyre.”
Marcus laughed. “That is surely an exaggeration. The order that came to Casinus was signed by a petty bureaucrat—”
“The pettier the bureaucrat the more danger, for petty men are remorseless and malicious, and are jealous of their authority.”
Marcus maneuvered in the next days to place his case before a magistrate of noble family and position. But this was impossible to do, for all was now in confusion. It was rumored that Sulla would soon return to Rome in triumph, and that all who had opposed him would meet with dire misfortune if not with immediate massacre. In consequence the noble families of Rome, who stood with Marius, were in a state of alarm and overwhelmed with premonitions of disaster. Many of them were preparing for flight, among them a number of Senators and others of the noblest and most patrician of families. Only the “small” men were not unduly affrighted, including the petty bureaucrats. Changes of government meant nothing menacing to them. They would serve one government as faithfully as another, so long as it meant their meagre retention of individual power and their stipends and the ornamentation of petty authority over others.
A Pillar of Iron Page 30