“I have discovered that my bronze statue of a nymph and a faun have disappeared from the vestibule.”
Terentia smiled at him sweetly. “My list is very comprehensive, regarding your guests, my dear one; I thought the statue indecent. Nevertheless, if you wish it, I will have it restored to the vestibule.”
“There are also my figurines in alabaster of Venus and Adonis missing from our bedroom.”
“What an obscene attitude! Nevertheless, as you appear to delight in them I will have them restored. You are a very strange husband,” said Terentia, folding the paper that contained the names. “I confess I do not understand you. You have incomprehensible moods. I recall the exasperation of my mother against my father. But you are more capricious than any other man. As your wife, I assumed the books from your mother, who is very competent. Do you know that because you have bought so much land and so many country homes and groves of olive and fruit trees, that you owe over two hundred thousand sesterces, and numerous other debts?”
“My clients have been unfortunately healthy and long-lived recently. They have not died and mentioned me in their wills,” said Marcus. “Two hundred thousand sesterces!”
“Yes.” Terentia paused and fixed him coldly with her big brown eyes. “I have observed from the account books of your office that you have had very many female clients lately whose divorces you have gained. I believed that you disapproved of divorce.”
“I do. But in these cases the ladies were justified.”
“They have given you no fees.”
“Terentia, lawyers are not permitted to accept fees, under the law. We can receive gifts and bequests only.”
Terentia’s eyes became even colder. “The ladies have not given you gifts. Do they give you gifts, Marcus, other than money?”
Marcus was astounded. “What are you implying?”
She shrugged, and cast down her eyes.
“Are you jealous!” cried Marcus, with much interest.
“I?” exclaimed Terentia. “How you defame me, Marcus. Do I not understand that you are the most faithful of husbands?”
Marcus pursed his lips. “In Rome in these days,” he said, “that is not considered a compliment. The husband of your friend, Aurelia, is notorious for his adultery.”
“So is Aurelia,” said Terentia. She rose, then became very serious. “Marcus, you must hint more broadly of gifts to your clients. Our accounts in the banks are low.” She smiled. “Do you wish to see Tullia before she sleeps?”
They went to the lamplighted nursery, which was charming and full of sweet-scented autumn air. The babe, Tullia, was still awake. She looked at her father and crowed and held up her little arms. He saw his own face in hers, a little pale but healthy, and shining with intelligence. Her eyes were his own, changeful and large, turning from amber to blue to gray from moment to moment. Marcus lifted his child in his arms and kissed her with joy. “My sweetheart,” he said. The child burbled against his cheek. She caught a lock of his hair in her fist and pulled it happily. Terentia, who had desired a son, nevertheless regarded father and child with pride. Terentia put her hand on her husband’s shoulder, then leaned her cheek against it. He was very strange. But he was virtuous and famous, if a little improvident with regard to gifts from clients; he also disregarded the cultivation of men who could advance him.
She said, “Marcus, I have decided that I and the babe must not accompany you to Sicily. I understand the climate is not the most salubrious for children.”
Marcus had been silently hoping that he would not be burdened with a large household in Sicily. He had also wished to flee, for a while, from his exigent wife who talked of account books and important guests, and whose conversation in general was not very edifying but concerned only with drab matters. He said now, “I will be very lonely.”
Terentia said with firmness, “It will be but a year, and you will visit us in the summer at the island. But I must insist that we be careful of Tullia’s health.”
“I agree with you, dear wife,” said Marcus, in a tone of such compliance that Terentia’s eyes sharpened with speculation.
Marcus returned to his library where he found his overseer, Aulus, waiting for him. “Master, the noble Julius Caesar requests a moment with you.”
“At this hour?”
Aulus bowed and looked at the floor. “Master, the hour is not late in these days. There is with him Pompey the Magnus.”
Marcus frowned. He knew that Pompey liked him, and he could not understand why. He said to Aulus, “Conduct them to my library.”
It was obvious that Julius and Pompey, though not drunk, had imbibed well and had dined heartily. They shone with that special well-being that comes only from the bottle and the table. Marcus felt heavy and middle-aged in their glowing presence. He felt dull and completely a husband and father—with account books.
“You must pardon our late intrusion, dear friend,” said Julius, embracing his unwilling host.
“You are welcome,” said Marcus, asking Aulus to bring wine.
“I doubt it,” said Julius, with mockery. “But, how we love you! Pompey said, as we approached the Palatine, ‘Let us visit our dearest friend, Cicero, at least for a greeting.’ He is most persuasive. And, here we are.”
Marcus glanced at Pompey, the broad-faced, gray-eyed and somewhat impassive man. He wondered why they were here. The wine was brought. The young men sipped it approvingly. “I must compliment Terentia,” said Julius. “She has elevated your taste.”
“She is complimented. Yet, you deplored my marriage.”
“Marcus has a most formidable memory,” said Julius to Pompey. “Do not incur his enmity. He will remember it forever.”
“True,” said Marcus.
Julius flung out his arm grandly. “If I remembered all my enemies, and bore grudges, my life would be miserable indeed. I prefer to reconcile my enemies and make them my friends.”
“And your allies,” said Marcus.
“Every man needs allies,” said Julius, looking at him with his sparkling black eyes. “We love you, Cicero. Therefore, we seek allies for you. We wish our whole nation to applaud you and bow before you.”
“And advance you,” said Pompey, who was not exuberant in conversation.
“What are you plotting now?” asked Marcus. He drank some of his own wine and was agreeably surprised that he no longer felt weighty.
Julius rolled up his eyes. “Cicero talks constantly of ‘plots.’ He distrusts us, his friends. He will not believe in our affection. Do we not lead virtuous and dedicated lives?”
“No,” said Marcus.
“What a comedian he is,” said Julius, beaming at Pompey. He leaned toward Marcus. “We have brought an invitation for you, from the noble Licinius Crassus, who spoke of you gloriously tonight. He wishes you to dine with him a week from today, before you leave for Sicily.”
“No,” said Marcus.
“But a triumvir? A man of wealth and influence!”
“No.”
Julius sipped his wine. “Crassus was the dear friend of Sulla. Sulla’s papers are now organized. Crassus has come into possession of a letter from Sulla, which was written to him. He wishes to read it to you. It concerns you, dear Marcus.”
Marcus was more than normally inquisitive. “How?”
Julius wagged his head. “I shall not tell you.—You must hear it from the lips of Crassus, who loves you.”
“Hah,” said Marcus. He hesitated. “I have heard of Crassus’ dinners. Depraved.”
Julius’ whole face twinkled. He looked about the grave library. He looked at Marcus’ sober garb. “What! Will you die before you know pleasure?”
“I do not know what you mean by pleasure,” said Marcus. “I should find it boring.” He paused. “I will attend the dinner of Crassus, whom I despise. I should like to read the letter from Sulla.”
Julius said triumphantly, “Rejoice! Your dear friends, Noë ben Joel and that darling actor, Roscius, will be present also
.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Julius Caesar said to M. Licinius Crassus, “Lord, it is much easier to corrupt, or render harmless, the honest and virtuous man than it is to corrupt or render harmless the innately dishonest and unvirtuous. For the first cannot believe, or will not let himself believe, that men are what they truly are; it would make him too melancholy and too distressed. But the second man asks himself but two questions, when approached: ‘Why do they wish me to do this or not to do this? And what shall I gain from either doing or not doing?’ He is hard and dangerous.
“Therefore, lord, as I told Sulla, it is only necessary to convince Cicero that you love Rome above all things, except for the gods. He will then not oppose you no matter the—exigency—or the seeming contradiction. Cicero’s lack of opposition is more valuable than most men’s participation and assistance. The people love him, not as a popular idol such as a gladiator, a general, an actor, or a politician. They love him for the virtue he has which they think they, themselves, possess.”
“Is he stupid?” asked Crassus.
“No, lord. He is only a good man.”
“Where, then, is the difference?”
Julius laughed and shook his head. “Cicero has tremendous influence in Rome. Let us rejoice that he is not aware of that.”
Crassus was a man of about forty-four years old, broad and heavy and muscular, somewhat short in stature and very wide of shoulder. It was startling, therefore, to see the long thin head on that great frame, his narrow features, his sunken but gleaming gray eyes under a low brow. His hair was thick, coarse, and partly gray, and had a turbulent appearance. He was a patrician like the dead Sulla, but he did not have Sulla’s true pride of race and family, nor Sulla’s honor, perverted though it had been. In spite of all that he had done, Sulla had loved his country. Crassus loved nothing but himself and money. He was enormously rich and a shrewd financier. He trafficked in slaves and money-lending. There was not a single Way to make money which he had not employed. Now that he was the richest man in the Republic he found himself restless. True, money brought power. But the power of money in a republic was somewhat restricted by law, and though it brought influence it was not enough for such as Crassus.
To gain the power he desired, the absolute power, it was first necessary to seduce the people. But a republican nation, no matter how venal it could become, was suspicious of panoplies and the open ceremonies of wealth. Crassus had discovered this for himself, when his beautiful young wife had appeared in public with a small golden crown on her head, encrusted with jewels, and wearing a purple cloak embroidered in golden lilies. The people had hissed her in the very circus. They had made derisive and obscene noises while they shouted, “Queen! Majesty! Empress!” The lady had had to retreat in tears and fear from the mounting anger and contempt and indignation of the people. Rome was not yet ready for empire. She would still oppose to the death the next step: the trumpets of royalty.
Crassus did not intend to make the mistakes of Sulla. The general had erred in being first of all a soldier and maintaining a soldier’s discipline and inherent restraint, and in loving his country. Crassus had none of these virtues. He approached the people softly, deftly, treacherously. He was rich; he became a philanthropist. He made speeches before the Senate, declaring that he desired only the welfare of the Republic and the Constitutional power of the people. What the people desired, that he would do. His purse was always open to the deserving and the virtuous. He worshiped freedom. He was but the servant of Rome. Let Rome command him. All that he had was Rome’s. He pretended to scorn of his class and the rich. He denounced the patricians for their “idleness and luxury and their indifference to the misery of the masses.” He upbraided the wealthy for their selfishness, their disregard for their fellowmen. “If the privileged have one privilege it is that of possessing the power to help the helpless and ameliorate their pain.” Appealing to the freedmen, always sensitive of their former state, he declared that all men had been endowed with freedom by God. To those who possessed slaves and who might become angered with him for that statement, he said, “The gods have decreed the status of men, and who dare oppose them?” To the rich of his own class he said in private, “The people must be soothed and flattered, lest they seize all we have and destroy us.”
To the Senate he said, “You are Roman power.” To the mobs he said, “You are the only power. Command us.”
He built free sanitaria for the indigent. When the allowance of bread and grain were not sufficient for the starving he opened his own purse to supply their needs. He was a patron of the arts. Actors and gladiators adored him, and spread his fame among the people. When he appeared in public his freedmen carried bags of gold, which they threw to the clamoring mobs. Each morning, with a devout and serious face, he received complainers in his outdoor portico and listened gravely to the statements of their wrongs, and gave them earnest promises. “My door is always open,” he said. He begged his clients for their prayers.
There were few who suspected or disliked him, for did he not love the people and did he not distribute his wealth to them and honor them? Among those who suspected him was Marcus Tullius Cicero, who knew the source of his riches. If Cicero should be moved to denounce him then the people might stare undeceived at this friend of the humble and the miserable.
He said to Julius, “How can we corrupt him?”
Julius said, “Lord, that you cannot do. You can only deceive him as to your ultimate desires and ambitions.”
“Catilina desires his death.”
“Catilina is a mad fool.”
“True. But the best cure for the danger inherent in such as Cicero is assassination.”
“The people love him, lord.”
Crassus smiled at the young man. “Catilina complains that you invariably defend Cicero, and that you love him.”
“He was the mentor of my childhood. I shall stand between Cicero and death as long as I live.”
Crassus laughed. “I have not risen to be triumvir nor attained my wealth by accepting as truth all that men tell me. You have another reason. Let us entertain this Cicero, and convince him of my gentle intentions—and render him harmless.”
Marcus had never seen so gorgeous a house as that of Crassus, nor any so luxurious and decadent in its ornamentations. He also noted that it was closely guarded—apparently against those Crassus so publicly loved. Never had Marcus encountered such carpets before; they were piled one upon another so thickly that one’s feet sank deeply into them. Caesar’s fine new home outside Rome was a hovel in comparison. Marcus’ own house was a mere cave. The slaves had been chosen for their youth and their beauty; their long hair, both that of youths and maidens, was caught up in jeweled, golden nets. Many of them were naked, to reveal their exquisite charms. The palace was filled with the sound of fountains and music and soft laughter, the fragrance of perfumes and sweet ointments and flowers. It held an air of gaiety and friendship and relaxation. Crassus wore a wreath of bay; the guests wore circlets of blossoms. Nubian slaves, tall and brilliantly black and handsome and naked, moved about the room with plumed fans, and stood behind the guests gently fanning them, for the autumn evening was warm.
Republic austerity, thought Marcus, observing all this. His senses were dazzled. The Alexandrian glass lamps quivered with light; gold and silver and jewels were everywhere, in plates and knives and spoons and platters and bowls. The cover on the long dining table was cloth of gold, centered with flowers and ferns. The murals and paintings on the white marble walls appeared to live and move in their bright colors.
Hidden by a carved ivory screen musicians played beautifully while the guests dined. Maidens sang in concert. Great salvers carried by proud cooks were placed upon the table, steaming with fish poached in wine, roasted geese and ducks and little pigs and delicate lamb. There were huge bowls containing the choicest fruit, and salads delicately flavored with wine and oil and garlic and capers. There were breads as white as snow. There were Judean
olives and citrons and pale celery and pickled fish and boars’ heads roasted with herbs. There were not only the best of wines from all nations, served from bottles sunken in mountain snow, but Syrian whiskey, golden and acrid and powerful. For those who had plebeian tastes—and Crassus publicly confessed to this—there was cold beer, bright as amber and frothing.
Each corner of the dining room held a statue of one of the gods, life-sized or larger, before which stood Persian vases filled with flowers and colorful autumn leaves. The scent of the flowers mingled with a whisper of incense, and all mingled with the music and the odors of rich food. Marcus observed that his napkin, of white linen, was bordered with woven gold. He sat at Crassus’ right, as an honored guest. On Crassus’ left sat Julius and next to him sat Pompey. There were lawyers here tonight and men of wealth and politicians and three Senators. There, too, were Noë and Roscius, who, catching Marcus’ eye from time to time, winked at him. Noë was becoming bald; his long face was full of humor. Roscius resembled a god in his crimson toga.
There were no women here tonight except for beautiful and nude female slaves who assisted the guests and refilled their goblets and who smiled at lascivious touches.
Why am I here? Marcus asked himself. When he was confused and disturbed he had a tendency to drink too much wine. He was quite silent; the other guests were laughing and jesting with the utmost good will and friendship and affection. Roscius had begun to declaim some verses of Noë’s latest play and all paused to listen to his powerful and musical voice. Noë beamed proudly, and accepted the applause and tributes with Roscius. Marcus began to understand that his friends had been invited not for their own sakes but as a lure for himself. He put down his wine-filled goblet and opened his ears.
“I hope, noble Cicero,” said Crassus in his rough but compelling voice, “that you are enjoying my poor dinner.”
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