He began to speak in his vehement yet controlled and fascinating voice:
“I have gathered you here tonight, comrades, for a brief time to tell you that our hour has struck! Before another moon has waxed and waned your signal will be given, in the name of Rome and freedom and justice and social equality and humanity!
“What is our government today, under the Senate and the tribunes of the people and our courts? Privilege for a few! Slavery for the many! Scorn for the noble freedman, scorn for the worker, scorn for the humble! Advantage for the powerful and the established and the proud! Laws to protect the owners of vast lands and villas and rich town houses; laws to oppress those who are hungry and weary and whose eyes have never seen a gold sesterce! Can a nation call itself free and great if multitudes are hungry and have no hope? No! Each night, within the gates of this city tens of thousands of hopeless men and their families retire to their cots with empty bellies. Their labor cannot purchase for them a single satisfying meal; their labor cannot protect their children; they call themselves free, but I tell you that the lowest slave in the house of the rich is more fortunate than the average Roman! Is that justice? Is that dignified and worthy? No!”
The men roared back to him: “No! No! No!” Among them were not only envious patricians whose debauchery had made them penniless and had plunged them into debt, but discontented mercenaries who had fought with the armies of Rome, failures in business, envious members of the lower middle-class, pimps, gamblers, criminals, aging gladiators, wrestlers, drugged entertainers, disaffected malcontents always seeking a revolution which would elevate their inferiority to positions of command and superiority over others, seekers of personal power, wanton wretches who hated man and sought an avenue to control others and loot them, subersives who had no loyalty to their country and lusted for the gold of others, and, in the majority, the restless and craving scum of Rome who had no allegiance by birth or ancestry to Rome, the polyglot rabble which has always been the curse of States, and a few youths who believed that violence in itself was enough to bring about the new glorious condition of man.
Catilina listened to their wild roar, and he smiled darkly in himself, despising his creatures who adored him, and who would follow him into the very red hell of death itself in their infatuation and their hatred of the strong, the valorous, the honorable, and the lawful.
“I tell you that I cannot see you tonight about me except with tears for your sufferings, your wronged state, your disadvantaged misery, your underprivileged torment! You have endured too long. Since the government has fallen under the power and the jurisdiction of a few, kings and princes have waited the habit of paying tribute to them all over the world; nations and states pay them taxes. But all the rest of us, however brave and worthy, whether patrician or plebeian, are looked upon by them as a mere mob, without importance or to be reckoned with, and under the heels of those whom, if things were right, we should be able to frighten out of their minds! Hence all influence, power, and profit are in their hands, in their gift. For us, they reserve only scorn, threats, persecutions, and poverty. How long shall we endure this with meekness and humility? How long now, you deprived fellows, are you going to endure this? Is it not better to die trying to change the present order of things than to live weakly suffering their insolence in a wretched and bleak condition of poverty and infamy?”
“Yes! Yes!” roared the mob, clenching their right fists and raising them high over their heads, to be caught in the fiery light of the torches.
Dogs! thought Catilina. Sweet dogs, who will tear a path through flesh for me to advance—and then to subjugate and enslave you! Serve me well, dogs, and I will throw you a random bone or the crusts of my bread.
He waited for the slavering ovation to quiet. Hundreds of avid eyes glowed and shone upon him in the torchlight; wet lips were licked; faces burst into vehemence.
Catilina raised his gemmed hand as if taking a mighty oath. His beautiful face was fervid and shone like the face of a god with pity, excitement, and dedication.
“But I swear success will be easy! We are young, our spirit is unbroken. Our oppressors, on the contrary, are only worn-out old rich men. Therefore, we have only to make a beginning and the rest will follow!
“Comrades! The signal will soon be given! Prepare yourselves for the day! Our hour has struck!* For me, power to protect you; for you gold and liberty and loot! Rome is ours!”
The mob went out of its mind with exultation and adoring love and rage and hate. It swarmed about Catilina, kissed his hands, his knees, his feet. His fellow patricians embraced him, winked at him subtly, and smiled. Among them was Publius Clodius, surnamed Pulcher.
The early morning light fell grayly on Rome and revealed a thin layer of whiteness on the ground. The air was cold and damply wretched, and the roofs of the city fumed with moisture. Every house blew up a cloud of acrid smoke. There were few abroad as Marcus Tullius Cicero and his brother, Quintus, accompanied on horseback by twelve strong-faced soldiers, rode out of the city. The east was a dull and brazen smear before the rising of the sun.
They reached the house of Julius Caesar, but the slaves and guards at the gate, after one glance, did not halt the military horsemen and their leaders. They drew back meekly and opened the gates, then gathered together, whispering. The noble Cicero, Praetor of Rome, the noble Captain Quintus Cicero, and the officers of the legion dared not be challenged or questioned. The breath of the slaves and the guards drew together in a little cloud of agitation as they watched the company wheel rapidly up to the very house itself.
Quintus, in his full military costume, grim and terrible, alighted first, ran to the carved bronze doors and struck mightily on it with his armed fist. The echo of the blow resounded from the silent white countryside of the suburb. The horses blew streams of moisture from their nostrils. The other soldiers reined in the horses, then spread themselves in a phalanx before the house. The east brightened into pure brass. Marcus alighted and joined his brother, and his haggard face was leaden in the morning light. His cloak was covered with beads of water.
The doors swung open and the overseer of the hall blinked at them, affrighted. Marcus spoke. “I am Marcus Tullius Cicero, Praetor of Rome. Request the noble Julius Caesar to see me at once.”
The overseer looked at the detachment of cavalry beyond the steps, and then at the dark face of Quintus. He bowed and visibly quaked. He admitted Marcus and Quintus to the warm and perfumed atrium where fountains tinkled placidly. He fled.
But the first to appear was the white-haired Aurelia, the mother of Julius, her stola hastily draped over her plump figure. She stared at Marcus with fearful eyes. “Marcus!” she exclaimed. “What is this, at this hour?” She turned her gaze on Quintus, and her fear grew. Quintus looked at her with the stony and withdrawn face of the soldier.
Marcus was taken aback. He had not expected Aurelia, whom he called “Aunt,” to be present in this house. He took her fat white hands and kissed them and tried to force a reassuring smile on his lined face. “Dear Aunt,” he said, “we have matters to discuss with Julius. Do not be alarmed, I beg of you.”
“Dear Marcus, but it is very early, and very strange—I have been told that you have brought many cavalry soldiers with you.”
Marcus bent and kissed her quivering cheek, and again tried to smile. “You know there are many robbers about these days, Aunt, and we set forth before it was hardly light. Romans are safe no longer, except when guarded.”
“True,” said Aurelia in a vague voice. But her shrewd black eyes still dwelled fearfully on Marcus. She clung to his hand, as if imploring. “Is there something wrong, my son?”
“No, nothing at all. I regret the early hour. But you know I have public duties as well as my law affairs. So it was necessary to come now.”
“Necessary?” repeated Aurelia. Her plump face was veined with trembling wrinkles. But before Marcus could think of an answer a young and beautiful woman glided into the atrium, Pompeia, Julius’ wif
e. Her long pale hair streamed over her shoulders and fell far down her back. She had a face like a lily, pale and smooth, and blue eyes so light that they appeared hardly to possess any color at all. She wore a long robe of a vaguely lavender hue, hemmed with gold, and despite the hour she was fragrant and composed, fingers and wrists bright with jewels. But her feet were prudently encased in gilded boots lined with white fur.
“Dear Marcus,” she murmured, as he kissed her hands. “It is delightful to see you again.”
She smiled bewitchingly. Her face was a little stupid but very lovely. Her light eyes beamed at him. Then she sighed. “My poor Julius, I regret to say, is unwell. He has had several seizures.”
But it was Quintus who replied in a harsh voice, “We must see him.” He ignored Marcus’ angry glance. Aurelia put her hand to her shaking lips and stared at Marcus with renewed affright.
“It is not trivial,” said Marcus. “I must see Julius. I trust he will arise.”
Pompeia said, “Ah. He is not confined to his bed. Let me conduct you, Marcus, to Julius’ audience chamber. He will be with you in a moment or two.”
Aurelia’s matronly face was still quivering with fear. She gave her duaghter-in-law a curiously hard look, then said, “Do not keep him too long, Marcus.”
“Be sure I will not,” said Marcus, and touched her round shoulder with gentle affection. The women led him to Julius’ private audience chamber, with Quintus clanking in the rear. Quintus, as he often did, thought Marcus hypocritical. The dangerous situation did not call for amenities to women and smooth conversation.
He said to his brother, when they were alone in the chamber, which was lined with shelves and cases filled with books, “How is it that you can bow and smile and speak softly when you and Rome are in a desperate condition?”
“Not so desperate that we must frighten innocent women unnecessarily.”
Quintus grimaced. “Pompeia is not so innocent. I have heard rumors that she and Clodius are lovers. That is probably the explanation of Aurelia Caesar’s presence.”
The door opened and Julius Caesar entered, clothed in a long robe of crimson wool belted at his narrow waist with a broad girdle of gemmed gold. He had lost flesh; always thin, he was suddenly gaunt. But he moved with his usual litheness and he was smiling gayly. Marcus looked at him and saw his pallor which he had tried to conceal with a womanish color. His black eyes sparkled, but they were sunken. He came to Marcus at once and embraced him. Marcus noted, with some surprise, that the embrace was not casual but almost grateful, as if Marcus had rescued him from a danger recognized by both.
“I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you, dear Marcus!” said Julius. He held his friend off a little distance with his lean hands, then embraced him again. “But what is this I hear? You have come accompanied not only by our valorous Quintus, but with a detachment of cavalry.”
Quintus said abruptly, “The protection was necessary.”
“Ah,” said Julius in an abstracted voice. He continued to regard Marcus with narrow questioning.
Marcus, who had not slept the night, felt his nerves come suddenly raw and he was filled with unusual impatience and anger.
“Julius, you are not under arrest, as of this moment. But let us not gracefully bow and lie and dance like debased entertainers. Let us throw our dice cleanly and speak to each other like men, for a change. I am sorry you are sick. But I have no time.”
Julius inclined his head. He sat down, as if suddenly exhausted and undone. “Be seated, if you please,” he said. Marcus seated himself stiffly in an ivory and ebony chair, but Quintus remained nearby, his hand on his sword.
“Julius,” said Marcus, “I have come on some information.” And he tossed the anonymous letter onto Julius’ knees. Julius lifted the letter in his hand; his fingers shook though he continued to smile. He read the letter. His face changed, tightened, and he moistened his lips. Then a long trembling ran over his body and a blob of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. He gasped. He put his hand to his throat. He said in a stifled voice, “Water. Quickly.”
There was a golden ewer with water on the dark marble table, and a goblet. Marcus quickly poured the water into the vessel and thrust it at Julius’ lips. Julius’ brow flushed deeply and the skin seemed to thicken. The tendons stood out on his neck; his breast heaved. He swallowed the water loudly and with obvious difficulty. His body was rigid and quaking. Then his hands clenched tightly and he bent his head forward and gasped over and over. Marcus watched him with reluctant concern, but Quintus’ face was bitter and remote.
Long moments passed in silence except for the labored breathing of the stricken man. New sunlight struck through the windows onto the white marble floor and glinted on the backs of gilded books. There was the merry sound, at a distance, of slaves pursuing their morning tasks. Then, at last, Julius lifted his head. He was paler than death itself and the false color on his cheeks was pathetic. But he smiled.
“What means this foolish letter?” he asked and his voice was almost normal.
“I do not know,” said Marcus. Then he said in a cold voice, “Do you, Julius?”
“I? I confess it seems mad to me. What enemies do you have?”
“You, Julius?”
Julius stared at him incredulously. “I, Marcus? Do I—”
“‘Not love you as a brother?’ I have heard that before. But brothers have murdered each other often in history, notably Romulus who murdered Remus. Do you wish me dead, Caesar?”
“Never, never,” said Julius, and his voice was suddenly a groan. “You must believe me.”
“I do,” said Marcus. “Wait. Hear me out. There is not only this letter, which was delivered to me last night by a mysterious visitor. I know many other things. I know that it is plotted to kill our elected Consuls in the first week of Janus. I, to prevent interference, was to be murdered first. Do you deny it, Caesar?”
Julius suddenly got to his feet, then stood in the middle of the room gazing about him strangely as if he did not know where he was. He said, “I know nothing of all this. You speak wildly. Some madman wrote you that letter. I swear to you—”
“By your patron, Jupiter?”
Julius was silent. He raised his head and looked at Quintus, whose hand was on his sword and whose soldier’s face was fierce with menace.
“Let us be done with lies and evasions, Julius,” said Marcus. “I could arrest you immediately, and have you thrown into prison to await trial as a conspirator against Rome. Do you wish that?”
Julius gave a great sigh. He fumbled for his chair and sat down again. He began to smile palely. He shook his head. “You have always spoken of plots and conspiracies, Marcus. But I believed you were a temperate and sensible man. Never did I suspect that you would resort to such a show—of strength and tragedy—like a badly written play.”
“Do you wish me to arrest you at once, and then arrest Pompey, Catilina, Piso, Curius, and all the others? Speak, Caesar!”
Marcus’ voice was loud and clear and sharp in the library, and Julius’ features drew together as at a stroke of unbearable pain. Julius said, “These are reckless words. Have you forgotten that Crassus is dictator of Rome, and the mightiest man of all? I do not understand you! You have brought me a foul and unsigned letter, and you expect me to take it seriously!”
“You take it seriously enough,” said Marcus. “Crassus is indeed dictator of Rome. Nevertheless, the army is mightier than Crassus and he fears it. Shall I give the word to my brother, who commands a legion, to seize all of you, to await trial and execution for crimes against our country? Look you, Caesar. I am capable of doing all this and well you know it. Do not believe Crassus will interfere!”
Julius raised a tremulous hand and rubbed the back of it against his sweating brow. “I know nothing,” he said. “There is no plot against the Consuls and you. If there is, I am no party to it and never heard of it.”
“Liar,” said Marcus, calmly. “You know you lie, and are not as
hamed.”
Julius was silent. His breath was loud in the room.
“The lust for power in you, Julius, will never die. You were born with it. I know not if you will succeed; Rome is debauched. It is very possible that I cannot oppose you or stop the ruin of my country. She has fallen too far to be saved.
“I can destroy you at this moment, Julius. If Quintus thrusts his sword into your body now, who shall try him or reproach him? The military is more powerful than any of you, including Crassus. And I have only to reveal my knowledge, which is complete, of all your plots, to have the people unanimously and enthusiastically acclaim my brother.”
Marcus prayed that Julius would accept his word and not challenge him. Julius had lifted his head and was regarding him with a piercing expression, as if seeking to discover all that which he suspected Marcus knew, but which in fact he did not really know. The two pairs of eyes held each other. Quintus moved a step closer to Julius and his sword was half-drawn.
Julius smiled. “If there is such a plot—and I deny it and laugh at it—I know nothing of it. Who listens to Catilina, who is mad? It is possible that he has conjured up something in his madness, and you have heard some ridiculous rumor. I tell you that he shall be warned—if he has such a plot.”
“Good,” said Marcus. “That is all I need to know. Beware, Caesar. The road to power is not taken by foolish and heedless men, with vile little conspiracies.”
“I agree with you with all my heart,” said Julius. “I am a soldier.”
“You are no true soldier of Rome,” said Quintus with disgust. “Listen well to me, Julius. If my brother dies, or the Consuls are murdered, the army will seize Rome. I promise you that, fervently.”
“And that,” said Marcus in a mild voice, “would not be the best fate for Rome. Do you agree with that also, Caesar?”
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