Julius, hearing this, laughed and nudged his host. “Did I not tell you that he is a comedian?”
But Crassus, despite his smile, was annoyed. He said, “I see you are sardonic, Cicero.”
“Not at all, lord. I am merely overcome. Do all the champions of the people live so, and dine so magnificently?”
Crassus considered him from under his thick black brows. “I should like to see all men in Rome live thus. Do they not deserve the fruits of their labor? Alas, they are deprived of their rights, their honest luxuries. Do not all Romans deserve chariots and cars and fine horses and splendid houses? Who denies them?”*
“The government, no doubt,” said Marcus. “The privileged. The greedy. The avaricious. The exploiters of the people.”
Crassus pretended to take his irony as sincerity. “That is correct. I hope to relieve the situation. Are not Romans worthy of the best the world can produce? Yes! Those who say they are not are the enemies of the people.”
“The riches of Croesus, all the treasuries of the world, would not be sufficient, lord, to give each Roman what I see here tonight.”
“True,” said Crassus. “But there is a middle way between luxury and poverty. There is comfort and some of the amenities of life, and security. That is what I desire for my people.”
He spoke with emphasis and authority and looked into Marcus’ eyes. Marcus did not believe him for a moment.
“Why should there be periodic famines and periodic feasts, Cicero?”
“I was under the impression,” said Marcus, “that nature decrees them.”
“We store grain for the people after a great harvest,” said Crassus. “But that is not the answer.”
“What is, lord?”
Crassus drank from his goblet and fixed his eyes gravely on the ceiling as if imploring the gods.
“Equal distribution of land, available to all,” he finally intoned.
Marcus said, “The farmers might object to that.”
“Ah, the farmers! Do I not love them? But there is land for all, Cicero.”
“Where?” said Marcus. “Italy is a country of mountains and meagre land.”
“The world,” said Crassus, mysteriously. “Is this not a great world, full of uncultivated land?”
“The inhabitants thereof might dispute the right of Romans to surge in upon them and do as they wish with land they do not own.”
“You misunderstand me, Cicero. All land in the world should be owned in common.”
“What then, of the right to private property as guaranteed by our Constitution?”
“I am not disputing that,” said Crassus. “Do I not uphold the Constitution?”
He is not a fool, thought Marcus. Therefore, his foolish utterances have a design. Marcus observed that everyone was listening to Crassus attentively and with approval, except for Noë and Roscius who were grinning unpleasantly.
Crassus continued, “Alexander had a dream of a united world. I, too, have that dream. One government, one people, one law, under God. Shall it be realized in my lifetime? I do not know. But we should, as men, work ceaselessly toward that goal.”
“Why?” said Marcus. “We should then destroy the infinite variety of humanity. We should destroy the gods of other peoples. We should destroy their way of life, which they have decreed for themselves. Who has the insolence to say our way is better than others?”
“The differences you remark upon, Cicero, are superficial. Are we not all men, with the same needs?”
“We are all men,” said Marcus, “But we do not all have the same needs. We Romans have no authority, human or divine, to impose our wills upon others, no matter how noble we pretend they are.”
“Pretend?” said Crassus, arching his brows.
“Pretend,” Marcus repeated.
Crassus thought, Catilina is right. He should be assassinated. He looked at Julius who was following the conversation with a broad smile.
“We can impose our government,” said Marcus, “only with the sword and with war and with the violation of the rights of other men. Let us refrain.”
“You do not understand, Cicero. Under one authority, one law, all land would be cultivated completely for the benefit of the people. All treasure would be utilized, and in fairness.”
“Including yours, noble Crassus?”
“Including mine,” said Crassus.
He is a dangerous liar, thought Marcus. Ah, these lovers of humanity! They are the most treacherous and terrible of men.
“I believe in law, and the orderly process of law,” said Marcus, trying to hide his revulsion. “I do not believe in force—or lies—in order to make all men live as we might desire them to live. If our way is truly good, then all men will eventually recognize it. If it is evil”—and here Marcus paused—“we can enforce it only by murder.”
Crassus said, “Let us pray our nation is just. Cicero speaks rightly. I admire his astuteness and his sincerity. He is a true Roman.”
He put his hand on Marcus’s shoulder and looked gravely up and down the table. “A true Roman,” said Crassus, in unctuous and reverent tones.
“As a true Roman,” said Marcus, “I honor other men and would leave them in peace. But we must not touch the hearts or minds of others, for that is holy ground and our feet are not worthy to tread it.”
“You disparage your fellowmen, Cicero.”
“No, I have compassion for them and understand them.” Marcus looked fully into the eyes of Crassus, who was the richest man in Rome. “It is true that we are again in a war with Mithridates of Persia, that Oriental tyrant and despot, that arrogant man who despises us, and whose fathers before him fought with Rome. Our young men die daily in the battle. Can we not, in the name of peace, strike a bargain with Mithridates? He is not mad. His nation suffers also.”
“It is not possible that you do not know that our envoys have already sought such a peace?”
“I know what is said. But I know that Rome also covets the treasures of Persia. Our treasury is bankrupt; our soldier are not paid.”
“Then, as a Roman patriot I desire for Rome the treasures of Mithridates!” cried Julius, and almost everyone laughed with him.
“As a Roman I prefer economy in government,” said Marcus. “Then we should have no need of wars.”*
Crassus raised a magisterial hand. “I agree with Cicero. He has spoken well. I shall urge the Senate to conclude this war rapidly, though we were provoked into engaging in it. Let us have peace.”
Marcus studied him, but his narrow face was resolute and he looked about him freely, as if challenging all there. “Let us labor as did our Founding Fathers, whose memory we revere. I tell you, Cicero, I wished your presence that you might hear me, for I speak from my heart.”
Noë exchanged a glance with Roscius, then whispered to him, “A far better actor than you, my dear mountebank.”
Crassus let his eyes become large and straight as they met those of Marcus. “It is probable that you do not believe me. But I love Rome.” He said to Julius, “Have I not already talked with Senators about these things? There are three with us tonight who can swear to the truth.”
Crassus removed a scroll from beneath his rich garments. “I have a letter written to me by Sulla before he died. I wish to read it to you, Cicero. ‘Among these, Licinius, whom you can trust is the lawyer, Marcus Tullius Cicero, whose mother is of the noble Helvii. He detested me but he knew I must do as I must. Unlike others, he is no liar, no hypocrite. Cultivate him well! Is not an honest man rarer than rubies? Is not that government blessed which boasts him in its crown? He will never betray his country nor his gods. He is valorous, among men who no longer can say they possess valor. Embrace him for me, for in these evil days my heart fails me. I am close to death; I see his shadow falling across my hand as I write these words to you. If any man can save Rome it is Cicero and those of his mind and spirit.’”
Marcus was greatly moved. He had colored with embarrassment at this eulogy. He reflec
ted that Sulla could not have written so to a man who was a threat to his country. He said in a low voice, “I am not worthy of such praise.”
But Crassus embraced him. “Let others judge of that, Cicero. I ask only that you pursue your way of honor and that you will advise me when I request it, for though I am much older than you I do not smile at the words of younger men.”
When alone with Julius and Pompey, Crassus said, “It is fortunate that he did not demand to read that letter for himself, for it is possible he would have recognized that it was not Sulla’s hand which had written it.”
“But you spoke in such heroic tones!” said Julius. “Even I, for a moment, thought it was in truth a letter from Sulla. Are you convinced now that Cicero is harmless?”
Crassus considered. “I am convinced that I deceived him. That is a different matter.”
“Let us hope he never discovers how powerful he is in Rome,” said Pompey. He smiled. “It is strange, but I feel affection for him. And I pity him.”
Julius was relieved that nothing threatened Marcus now, so he said, “Yes. He beguiles one, for he can be trusted. Therefore, we love him; we have no need to fear him.”
Crassus frowned. “It has been said, beware of the wrath of a good man for it is like lightning and can destroy a city. Nevertheless, let him live. We need him to mask our faces.”
Marcus who had not believed that his administration in Sicily would bring him pleasure discovered that he suddenly loved that island of wild bronze mountains and stony earth and violent sun. He liked the poor but volatile people, their songs, their strange faces which had been formed from many bloods. He admired their struggle with their fierce land, and their seamanship. They were a people who would kill on the slightest provocation and they hated Romans for Romans declared they were not of the Italian race, but the scourings of the Great Sea. But from the first they had loved Marcus and had trusted him. They did not say of him as they had said of other quaestors, “He will grind us for taxes and eat up our little substance.” They said of him, “He is a just man, which is a strange thing for a Roman.” They brought fresh fruit to him, and newly caught fish and fine vegetables, and he was touched for he knew what a sacrifice it was for this poor people. He revelled in their affection. His door was open to them at all times and he was patient with complaints and always tried to right a wrong. When a man could not meet the Roman taxes and was in fear of his freedom and the freedom of his family, Marcus paid the small sum from his own purse, and did not enter it in his books.
He found peace and quiet in his little villa. He was happy to be living alone once more, though he felt guilty at this happiness. He wrote frequently to his wife and his parents and his letters expressed his love for his little daughter. He was now so serene that he could even endure the long letters from Terentia which were filled with news of investments and the gossip of the city and admonitions that he be frugal with his stipend. His affable spirits returned to him. When he was alone he fell into his old habits of long reading and long study and walking by himself looking at the flaming sea at sunset. There were other Romans on the island, on farms which they had bought. He did not seek their company. They sought him out and he was amiable and sometimes dined with them. But he made no friends.
The sun darkened his skin; the simple food and tranquillity increased his flesh. The long and meditative walks strengthened his muscles. He could not believe it when he suddenly realized that almost a year had passed and he must prepare to return home. Certainly, he had not been lonely. He bought some land in Sicily and told the peasants who worked on it that the fruits of their labors were theirs and they needed only to pay the taxes from the harvests and not even that if they were not able to do so. Romans did not trust Sicilians, for they were wily. But Marcus trusted them and took their brown hands in his and smiled affectionately into their eyes. “One day I shall return and live always among you,” he said. They kissed his hands and wept honest tears, they who were by nature not honest. An old crone gave him an amulet and blessed him and kissed the hem of his garments and wept. She said to her children, “Honest men no longer die in peaceful beds. He will die by the hands of wicked men.” They looked at her with awe, for she was a soothsayer.
Marcus received a letter from Julius which informed him that Crassus was now Praetor of Rome, and that Romans loved him for his virtue and his justness. Julius and Pompey were his advisers and counselors. They were all disturbed because of the increasing signs of rebellion among the slaves. The Thracian, Spartacus, was inciting them with new urgency. Roman masters no longer cherished their slaves and honored their manes after death and sacrificed to them and held them part of their households. Thinking of the slaves Marcus felt anguish for them and bitterness against their cruel masters. He wrote to his mother (but not his wife) “It is my wish that those who have served us well for seven years be taken before the officer and freed, and thereafter, if it is their will to remain with us let us pay them a just wage.” Slavery had never revolted him before as it revolted him now. It seemed to him that slavery degraded the master more than it did the slave. Romans had newly adopted the custom of the Greeks in using the word “thing” for their slaves, as if they possessed no souls but were only animals! When Terentia wrote a letter in protest “at your profligacy,” Marcus did not answer it.
His correspondence was very large, and he liked letters and replied to them for hours. Noë wrote him, and Roscius, and Quintus, his brother, and Atticus, and many others for whom he had a regard. Hundreds who had read his essays wrote to him in gratitude. He was surprised that Pompey sent him letters also. The Sadducee whom he had met in Epidaurus wrote him, and so did Anotis, the Egyptian. He had not known that he had so many friends and that so many loved and admired him. He wrote many letters to his students, advising them. They sent him copies of new laws, which he studied long and seriously. Sometimes he frowned. Taxes had risen again. The middle-class was again being assaulted and their moneys and properties confiscated under many pretexts, mostly from the owing of enormous taxes or accusations of subversion. “And that is how Crassus is refilling our treasury,” Marcus said to himself with bitterness. Rome had won the war against Mithridates, who had been murdered or assassinated, and Persia paid huge tribute and bowed her head to Rome. We move, thought Marcus.
There were gray shadows at his temples now, and threads of it in his thick brown hair. There were beautiful peasant women on the island who looked at him kindly, but he had never been a libertine. He believed, as an “old” Roman, that a certain respect should be given women and that men should not exploit them in exchange for gifts, if they were poor. He lived an ascetic life on Sicily and found his sensual pleasures in the scenery and the changing sea, and in the climbing of mountains. He wrote constantly. His sleep was more peaceful than it had been for years. Sometimes he forgot Livia for days at a time.
A month before his departure from Sicily he received a letter from Terentia, filled with agony and grief and disfigured with tears.
“My darling, my adorable, my divine sister, Fabia, is dead by her own hand, resembling Araneada with a silken rope. But alas, she had not incited Athene but rather Eros. Through his arts she defiled the sacred fires of Vesta and so was unworthy to live. Who was her partner in this abominable crime? The one whom you have warned me against, dearest husband, Lucius Sergius Catilina! My hand trembles. My whole being is shaken; my heart is irrevocably broken. I, her beloved sister, did not dream of this horror, no, not even when she visited me and I looked upon her pallid face and listless form and her mute white lips. But it appears that all Rome knows and has known for many months. Why did she not confide in me? Was I not closer to her than a mother? How did I betray her and lose her confidence? She died because she had realized she had committed the greatest of all sins.
“After her death Catilina was seized and brought to trial for this crime. Your friend, Julius Caesar, whom you never trusted, was his advocate at the trial. Catilina was adjudged guiltless through th
e eloquence of Caesar who swore that Catilina had never once gazed upon the Vestal, and on the testimony of Aurelia, who swore that her husband never left her side at night. Yet, all Rome knows the truth. Who will avenge Fabia, my dove, my sweetest sister, who fell before the seduction of Catilina and who now lies in an unnamed and shameful grave? More than all, I fear for her soul, for she broke her vows of chastity and blew out the fires of Vesta. I can write no more for I am blinded with my tears.”
Marcus was stunned at this news. He thought of that beaming and radiant presence in his house, that lovely Vestal who had breathed only shyness and innocence, who had blessed his child, whose glances were modest and bright, whose voice was like a bird singing in the dawn. Now her name was accursed in Rome, among her Vestal sisters. Marcus crushed the letter in his fist and he was filled with the passion of hatred and the lust to murder. He ran from his house to the shore of the sea and the sky and the water appeared inflamed to him and his heart roared in his chest. He sat on a boulder and panted. His mind swam. There were murderers for hire in Rome, secret murderers who left no trace. How should be hire one? Or, should he do the deed himself? Sweat poured down his face.
He seemed to hear the voice of old Scaevola, “Discover his ambition and thwart it. That is worse than death.” But in all these years he had not discovered what Catilina desired above all things. He had pursued hints to no avail. He had discreetly questioned others, even Caesar. Alas, he had never discovered anything.
But Catilina must be destroyed. The mists of evening were boiling over the sea and in them Marcus could discern the sad forms of Livia and her child and Fabia, the innocent one. They held out wan arms to him and he burst into fresh tears. “Avenge us,” they mourned in the evening wind.
Marcus stood up and raised his hand and again renewed his vow that Catilina must be destroyed. If he had any reason for living at all that was the reason. He returned to his house in the darkness and lay on his bed and could not sleep. Hatred was like a coil of fire in his bowels.
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