Marcus, outraged and burning with humiliation, decided he hated his wife, and that he would divorce her at once and return her to her records and her stockbrokers and bankers on the morrow. He feasted on the joyous idea of driving his unwanted bride to her house and relatives, rejected and mortified and weeping.
Then suddenly the humor of the situation overcame him and he burst out laughing, and settling himself comfortably fell asleep, still chuckling. At some time before morning Terentia, in her warm slumbers, must have taken his hand, for when he awoke to the blue and gold dawn he found his fingers clasped with hers. He was touched, and kissed her cheek, and sighed a little.
Later Terentia responded to her husband with competence, as she did all things. The act of love was no more significant to her than her other affairs, and had its place in her life, and must be attended to with dispatch and with thoroughness. Moreover, it was her duty, and she valued duty above all things.
Marcus did not know whether she loved him or not. She had a strong affection for him. Did she enjoy his body? He was never to know. She looked on him amiably. He was sure she was his friend.
*Letter to Atticus.
CHAPTER FORTY
“That accursed Chick-pea!” exclaimed Catilina. “He is now a politician, and you have declared him harmless for years! Is a politician ever harmless? Who knows where his career will end, if we do not destroy him? I have known from my earliest youth that he was a threat to all we are, and all we desire.”
“A mere quaestor,” said Julius, “the lowest of the low political offices to which to be elected. And he goes to Sicily, which in my opinion is the anus of Hades. Unfortunate Cicero. At his age, he expected a son. The Lady Terentia presents him with a daughter. You were tormented, my dear Lucius, when he rose higher and higher in the esteem of the people through his forensic oratory. You saw shadows of him everywhere, avenging. He obsesses you! There are times when I am so struck with hilarity over this absurdity that I cannot control myself. Never does he speak your name.
“It is no secret that he despises you, Apollo. It is no secret in Rome that you detest him. You have said that he remembers Livia. On what proof? He is a gentle, married man, loved by the people of Rome because of his virtue and probity and his eloquence and mastery in the courts, where he always is the gladiator defending justice. And now he is a quaestor, a most modest position. Still, you fear him!
“Let us speak of more important matters. Such as Fabia.”
Catilina’s expression changed subtly, but he stared directly into the lively black eyes staring into his. “And what of Fabia?”
“Are you not my dear friend? Do I not visit Cicero and his tranquil household—or it would be very tranquil except for Terentia’s ambition—and do I not see him carrying his child peacefully in the gardens and does he not talk to me of his infernal law, or his books? But I visit him, not only because of old childhood affection, but because I wish to catch rumors, to watch any change of his countenance. I speak of Fabia to him in the most casual manner, inquiring about her sacred health. He answers kindly enough, and mentions that the girl visits her sister often. Do you not understand? You wished him murdered to prevent him from marrying the redoubtable Terentia, who is Fabia’s sister. Yet he knows nothing. Am I to congratulate you on your discretion during your meetings with Fabia, or am I to be relieved by hearing from your lips that you have abandoned the girl?”
Lucius was silent.
Julius’ house was a splendid new one he had built outside Rome, full of fountains, statues, marble, gold and silver, Alexandrian glass, wrought copper and bronze candelabra, flowers, blue pools, gleaming carpets, silken hangings, marble floors, murals, paintings and books, and artifacts from every country in the world. The two friends were together in the gardens, blossoming and green and shadowed with myrtle and oak and cypress, under a fairer and clearer sky than that of the city. In the very center of the lawns stood a gigantic black metal statue of the Egyptian god, Horus, son of Isis, in the form of a falcon with wings outspread and shadowing the grass. The mighty beak lifted itself arrogantly; the enormous wings appeared to quiver in the sunshine. Julius had a weakness for Egypt and its arts, and he possessed many stolen Egyptian treasures, and not only the one of the sacred serpent which he kept hidden in his chamber. He liked to look at the great falcon, and watch its mounting shadow on the earth. At those moments he felt inspired.
He gazed insistently at Catilina. Then Catilina said, “You may choose your own deduction.”
“This is not a private affair! What any of us does now becomes momentous. If Fabia has succumbed, desert her at once. If she has not, forget her. Listen to me! Do you know what I have heard in the city? That Fabia has suddenly turned pale of face, and that she fainted before the very fires of Vesta and her sisters had to bear her away, and that but a few days ago. The people thought that an omen of disaster, for all know Fabia, the most beautiful of women, and all know her sweetness and swear that her glance restores them. Therefore, when she fainted it lighted rumor. Are you concerned with this, Lucius?”
Again Catilina’s face changed, and now his terrible blue eyes flashed.
“I will not permit you to question me, Caesar! Be done with it.”
“The Vestal Virgins are my guardians, the guardians of my ancient house. They are the guardians of the hearth fire of Rome. A Vestal who is seduced, whose name becomes defamed, is a scandal and a horror to the people. The people have vengeance on men who corrupt a Vestal, and they also have vengeance on the Vestal who permitted that corruption. It is a capital crime. How long must I continue to remind you?”
“You may cease immediately.”
“Gods!” cried Julius. “Do not speak to me with such contempt! Speak to your slaves so, or your wife, or your precious companions. But not to me, Catilina, not to me.”
“We have become insolent,” said Catilina.
“Insolent? I? To you? Am I your inferior?”
Catilina smiled grimly. “You wish to be my superior. You are ambitious, Caesar, and there are times that I do not trust you.”
“Do not divert me. Let there be no more rumors of Fabia.”
Catilina turned to him quickly. “Rumors? The maiden fainted; the days lately have been hot. On this small premise you build a tower of iniquity and lies.”
“Is she a maiden still, Catilina? Are my suspicions iniquitous, and lies?”
“To all, certainly. You spoke of rumors. What other rumors?”
Watching him closely, Julius said, “She weeps at night, among her sister Vestals, and wakes groaning from dreams, accusing herself of vile but unnamed crimes.”
“Ah, you sleep among the Vestals!”
Julius sprang to his feet and a line of foam appeared about his lips and he turned deadly pale. He struggled visibly to control the emotions which were about to culminate in the syndrome of his disease. So great was his will that after a moment or two, while Catilina watched him uneasily, he was able to suppress the onrushing attack. He sat down again and dropped his head on his breast. Then he slowly put his hand to his head in a dazed fashion. He stared about him. He said, as if alone and as if speaking to himself, “What is that which I saw?”
Lucius Catilina went to a marble table and poured a goblet of rosy wine and brought it to Julius. Julius took it like a man in a dream. His face was the color of lead. Sweat streamed from his brow like tears. He began to drink the wine very slowly and gazed before him as if attempting to catch a glimpse of some horror he had seen before.
Then he said in a dull voice, “There must be no more of Fabia, if there has been anything in truth.”
Now he raised his eyes, which were filmed yet full of power. “I do not threaten rashly nor out of passing anger.” His breath was slow and panting. “There is another matter. It is rumored that you are a dear associate of that Thracian, Spartacus, and of those slaves, Crixus and Oenomaus, whom he incites. We live, in Rome, now terrified of the slaves. Are you one of the plotters, Catilina? I do
not expect to hear truth from your lips. But beware! The time is not ripe. A revolt of the slaves will not lead us to power.”
“Something must,” said Catilina with bitterness. “The years go on, and we remain the same, like schoolboy conspirators.”
“You wish to see Romans, your fellow citizens, murdered in the streets by revolting slaves?”
Catilina’s eyes shifted but his face took on a dark expression.
“Let us use reason,” said Julius. “We want no massacres of our own people. It is true that we expect to use your own influence over your monstrous friends to make us irresistible, so that for fear no one will dare oppose us. But we wish no Roman blood to flow in the streets.”
Catilina’s arrogant mouth stirred, but he still did not speak.
Julius continued, “Yes, I can see that Roman blood means nothing to you. You hate all things; that is your nature. There is too much violence in you, and violence was always your first love—violence for its own sake. If I should give one word to Crassus you would not live to see another sun, or seduce another woman.”
Catilina’s hand flew to his dagger. But Julius, now recovered, rose to his feet and smiled at him with sincere amusement. “Be valorous, Catilina, when our day arrives, but do not be violent. I love you. I should not like to offer sacrifices to your manes.”
He walked steadily if a little slowly to the black and enormous statue of Horus. He looked up into the ferocious beaked face. When he turned away at last he saw that Catilina had left without a farewell.
Terentia, who believed that no room in her house should be sacred from her presence, came into the library where Marcus was busy with more essays he had promised Atticus.
She had not knocked upon the door before entering, and Marcus started with nervous annoyance and frowned. He was not sufficient of an “old” Roman to believe that his wife should restrict her presence to the women’s quarters, and to the company of her slavewomen and her mother-in-law and the nursery where slept her little daughter, Tullia, and to the outdoor porticoes reserved for females, and to their private courtyard. But he did believe that those who invaded another’s privacy should beg the pardon of those invaded, or should first ask permission.
“I have asked you, dear Terentia, not to invade my library when I am occupying it,” said Marcus, with as much severity as he could summon, which was not very much.
“Pish,” said Terentia. “What is that which you are writing? Obscure essays for idle men to read in their baths? There are more important matters.”
As it is axiomatic that every writer believes that what he writes is deathless, Marcus was justifiably vexed and irritated. He was more vexed than ever when Terentia seated herself without permission—she who would not sit in the presence of men at the table but kept herself discreetly near the door to supervise the dishes in the hands of slaves before giving her approval. He was very fond of Terentia. He was to write her from Sicily, “You are more courageous than any man,” and “the truest of helpmates.” But for some reason he was happier in her absence than he was in her presence. He was always trying to put her out of countenance because she was always so certain that all she did was perfect and not to be disputed by a mere man. For an “old” Roman matron, Marcus would think, she has a low opinion of my sex. But, was it possible that the “old” Roman matrons did have that low opinion and so avoided men?
Sighing, seeing that Terentia was firmly fixed in her chair and with a look on her face that indicated she would not be intimidated by anyone, Marcus put down his pen.
“I am engaged on an essay which I believe will cast some light on a most important subject,” he said with much weightiness. He never did quite know whether he talked intellectually to Terentia in order to enlighten her or whether it was to define the line between her mind and his, to the denigration of hers. “Where does reason end and emotion begin? Who can say that he thinks rationally on must subjects, which is estimable, or is impelled, unknown to himself, from some deep force hidden in his nature which has nothing to do with his intellect? If so impelled, how can he advance the idea that his ‘reason’ is objective and therefore to be accepted without quibbling by other men? I love law because I am disgusted with and fearful of lawlessness. But, is that pure reason? There are men who instinctively love lawlessness and recklessness, and find rational reasons for being so—such as the apparent anarchy they find in nature and the disregard of nature for our human ideas and motives. We say law is sacred. But nature regards nothing as sacred. We abhor murder, but nature regards it with tranquillity. We have compassion on the weak—but nature ruthlessly eliminates them because weakness begets weakness and there is no place in the world for those who are not strong. Shall we quarrel with nature in that she has decreed that the advancement of men and animals and vegetables depends on the elimination of those not endowed with the genius to survive? She has shown that she does not desire the survival of a weak babe. But we use our arts of medicine to ensure that survival. Are we wrong, or is nature? Do we use reason? Or are we merely emotional?”
“Tullia is not weak; she is a very strong babe,” said Terentia. “Therefore; I do not see that she should be made the subject of one of your essays.”
Marcus raised his eyes to the ceiling with a deliberate patience that never failed to exasperate the pragmatic Terentia. “I was not writing of my little daughter, Tullia,” he said in the voice of a martyr, of a greatly misunderstood husband, of one who is patient even with idiocy. “I see that I cannot reach you.”
“Let me attempt, then, to reach your exotic mind, O Master,” said Terentia, with that rare satire of hers which always startled Marcus disagreeably.
“It is true,” Terentia continued, “that I cannot write essays nor conduct a case in the courts with subtlety and abstruse arguments. But I can read account books, and I can take the measure of our situation. Though of an inferior mind, I am able to judge whether or not to sell a certain investment, or whether or not a certain bank is worthy of my patronage. I know who of my friends can advance us, and I know those who are a hindrance. I know to the penny our present balance in the counting houses, and the value of our holdings in land.
“But certainly, all that is contemptible to your magnificent mind, Marcus.”
“What is wrong now?” asked Marcus in a resigned voice.
Terentia helped herself to a handful of figs and dates. She engulfed her choices audibly and contemplated the wall just over Marcus’ shoulder. Her eyes were large and thoughtful. She chewed with enjoyment.
“Almost everything,” she said, after swallowing with much deliberation.
“Can you not talk about it with me tomorrow, when I am less engaged?”
“When? In your courts? In your offices? No. It must be now.” She fished among her voluminous and unbecoming garments and brought forth a paper. “I have marked these down in an orderly fashion. Master; spare your slave a few moments of your valuable time. I will be brief.”
“Please,” said Marcus, in an elaborate tone of politeness.
“You have told me that you wish a dinner for certain gentlemen. Master, the dinner will be served as you desire. I have noted the names of the guests. Almost all of them are dull lawyers and businessmen. I do not deprecate them; they are your associates. But none is a man of real importance, and if you are to advance you must seek important men.”
“That dinner was designed for an exchange of opinions on law, Terentia.”
“Life is too short for mere self-indulgence,” said Terentia firmly. “You take pleasure from such discussions. Pleasure is suspect. You have been elected a quaestor. You are now a politician. Who can advance your political fortunes?”
“Who?” echoed Marcus with even more elaborate patience.
“Julius Caesar, Pompey the Magnus, Lucius Catilina. The noble Licinius Crassus, the triumvir, the richest man in Rome, the financier. These are but a few.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “I find Julius annoying and too adroit. I
find Pompey heavy of intellect. I need not tell you again how I loathe Catilina. As for Crassus, I despise him in my heart, for he made himself rich through the expropriation of the estates of the unfortunate when Sulla returned from Asia. He is an exigent man; he can buy offices for himself and his friends at will, and he who buys offices is despicable.”
“All politicians buy offices,” said Terentia, with her own patience. “Do you think men are elected because of their probity and their intelligence and their devotion to their country and their hope to advance their country? All political offices are for sale, and all successful politicians have laid down the necessary gold.”
“I did not,” said Marcus, angrily.
Terentia shrugged. “You should have been a proconsul at the very least. You should have bought office, as do all intelligent men. I can name you a dozen triumvirs who bought offices or whose fathers were rich enough to buy them for them. Virtue has nothing to do with it, nor suitability, nor worthiness. If virtuous, suitable or worthy men were the only ones to be elected, then surely half the offices, or more, of Rome would be vacant!”
“A people should search for their best men,” said Marcus.
“But who, in their opinion, are the best men? The men who promise them labor and struggle for the sake of their country, or the men who promise them gifts?”
Marcus took his eyes from the ceiling and stared at his wife with respect. She smiled at him maternally. “I have been reading some of your old essays,” she informed him. “I did not come to these conclusions through the power of my poor female brain.”
“You are my apt pupil,” said Marcus, taking up his pen again.
“Wait. Do you insist on those dull men for your dinners? Or will you take my advice? If you do not wish those four I have mentioned, there are others.”
“List those, O Terentia, you consider important. Except for Catilina.”
Marcus was very kind and he had a deep affection for his wife if not love. Terentia was relieved. “Let us return to the number of your guests, dear husband. I have added other names,” and she named them. Marcus scowled. Then he stared at his wife.
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