Caesar Dies - Talbot Mundy
Another fat old slave led Sextus to a porch behind the house and through
that to a library extremely bare of furniture but lined with shelves on
which rolled manuscripts were stacked in tagged and numbered order;
they were dusty, as if Galen used them very little nowadays. There were
two doors in addition to the one that opened on the porch; the old
slave pointed to the smaller one and Sextus, stooping and turning
sidewise because of the narrowness between the posts, went down a step
and entered without knocking.
For a moment he could not see Galen, there was such confusion of shadow
and light. High shelves around the walls of a long, shed-like room were
crowded with retorts and phials. An enormous, dusty human skeleton,
articulated on concealed wire, moved as if annoyed by the intrusion.
There were many kinds of skulls of animals and men on brackets fastened
to the wall, and there were jars containing dead things soaked in
spirit. Some of the jars were enormous, having once held olive oil. On
a table down the midst were instruments, a scale for weighing chemicals,
some measures and a charcoal furnace with a blow-pipe; and across the
whole of one end of the room was a system of wooden pigeon-holes,
stacked with chemicals and herbs, for the most part wrapped in
parchment.
Sunlight streaming through narrow windows amid dust of drugs and spices
made a moving mystery; the room seemed under water. Galen, stooping
over a crucible with an unrolled parchment on the table within reach,
was not distinguishable until he moved; when he ceased moving he faded
out again, and Sextus had to go and stand where he could touch him, to
believe that he was really there.
"You told me you had ceased experiments."
"I lied. The universe is an experiment," said Galen. "Such gods as
there are perhaps are looking to evolve a decent man, or possibly a
woman, from the mess we see around us. Let us hope they fail."
"Why?"
"There appears to be hope in failure. Should the gods fail, they will
still be gods and go on trying. If they ever made a decent man or woman
all the rest of us would turn on their creation and destroy it. Then
the gods would turn into devils and destroy us."
"What has happened to you, Galen? Why the bitter mood?"
"I discover I am like the rest of you--like all Rome. At my age such a
discovery makes for bitterness." For a minute or two Galen went on
scraping powder from the crucible, then suddenly he looked up at Sextus,
stepping backward so as to see the young man's face more clearly in a
shaft of sunlight.
"Did you send that Christian into the tunnel to kill Commodus?" he
asked.
"I? You know me better than that, Galen! When the time comes to slay
Commodus--but is Commodus dead? Speak, don't stand there looking at me!
Speak, man!"
Galen appeared satisfied.
"No, not Commodus. The blow miscarried. Somebody slew Nasor. A
mistake. A coward's blow. If you had been responsible--"
"When--if--I slay, it shall be openly with my own hand," said Sextus.
"Not I alone, but Rome herself must vomit out that monster. Why are you
vexed?"
"That wanton blow that missed its mark has stripped some friends of mine
too naked. It has also stripped me and revealed me to myself. Last
night I saw a falling star--a meteor that blazed out of the night and
vanished."
"I, too," said Sextus. "All Rome saw it. The cheap sorcerers are doing
a fine trade. They declare it portends evil."
"Evil--but for whom?" Old Galen poured the powder he had scraped into a
dish and blinked at him. "Affiliations in the realm of substance are
confined to like ingredients. That law is universal. Like seeks like,
begetting its own like. As for instance, sickness flows in channels of
unwholesomeness, like water seeping through a marsh. Evil? What is
evil but the likeness of a deed--its echo--its result--its aftermath?
You see this powder? Marcia has ordered me to poison Commodus! What
kind of aftermath should that deed have?"
Sextus stared at him astonished. Galen went on mixing.
"Colorless it must be--flavorless--without smell--indetectible. These
saviors of Rome prepare too much to save themselves! And I take trouble
to save myself. Why?"
He stopped and blinked again at Sextus, waiting for an answer.
"You are worth preserving, Galen."
"I dispute that. I am sentimental, which is idiocy in a man of my age.
But I will not kill him who is superior to any man in Rome."
"Idiocy? You? And you admire that monster?"
"As a monster, yes. He is at least wholehearted. As a monster he lacks
neither strength of will nor sinew nor good looks; he is magnificent;
he has the fear, the frenzy and the resolution of a splendid animal. We
have only cowardice, the unenthusiasm and the indecision of base men.
If we had the virtue of Commodus, no Commodus could ever have ruled Rome
for half a day. But I am senile. I am sentimental. Rather than betray
Marcia--and Pertinax--who would betray me for their own sakes; rather
than submit my own old carcass to the slave whom Marcia would send to
kill me, I am doing what you see."
"Poison for Commodus?"
"No."
"Not for yourself, Galen?"
"No."
"For whom then?"
"For Pertinax."
Sextus seized the plate on which the several ingredients were being
mixed.
"Put that down," said Galen. "I will poison part of him--the mean
part."
"Speak in plain words, Galen!"
"I will slay his indecision. He and Marcia propose; that I shall kill
their monster. I shall mix a draught for Marcia to take to him--in case
this, and in case that, and perhaps. In plain words, Commodus has sent
for Livius and none knows how much Livius has told. Their monster
writes and scratches out and rewrites long proscription lists, and
Marcia trembles for her Christians. For herself she does not tremble.
She has ten times Pertinax' ability to rule. If Marcia were a man she
should be emperor! Our Pertinax is hesitating between inertia and doubt
and dread of Cornificia's ambition for him; between admiration of his
own wife and contempt for her; between the subtleties of auguries and
common sense; between trust and mistrust of us all, including Marcia
and you and me; between the easy dignity of being governor of Rome and
the uneasy palace--slavery of being Caesar; between doubt of his own
ability to rule and the will to restore the republic."
"We all know Pertinax," said Sextus. "He is diffident, that is all. He
is modest. Once he has made his decision--"
Galen interrupted him
"Then let us pray the gods to make the rest of us immodest! The
decision that he makes is this: If Commodus has heard of the
conspiracy; if Commodus intends to kill him, he will then allow
somebody else to kill Commodus! He will permit me, who am a killer only
by professional mistake and not by intention, to be made to kill my
former pupil with a poisoned drink! You understand, not even then will
Pertinax take resolution by the throat and do his own work."
"So Pertinax shall drink this?"
"It is meant that Commodus shall drink it. That is, unless Commodus
emerges from his sulks too soon and butchers all of us--as we deserve!"
"Have done with riddles, Galen! How will that affect Pertinax, except
to make him emperor?"
"Nothing will make him emperor unless he makes himself," said Galen.
"You will know tonight. We lack a hero, Sextus. All conspirators
resemble rats that gnaw and run, until one rat at last discovers himself
Caesar of the herd by accident. Caius Julius Caesar was a hero. He was
one mind bold and above and aloof. He saw. He considered. He took.
His murderers were all conspirators, who ran like rats and turned on one
another. So are we! Can you imagine Caius Julius Caesar threatening an
old philosopher like me with death unless he mixed the poison for a
woman to take to his enemy's bedside? Can you imagine the great Julius
hesitating to destroy a friend or spare an enemy?"
"Do you mean, they strike tonight, and haven't warned me?"
"I have warned you."
"Marcia has been prepared these many days to kill me if I meant to
strike," said Sextus. "I can understand that; it is no more than a
woman's method to protect her bully. She accuses and defends him, fears
and loves him, hates him and hates more the man who sets her free. But
Pertinax--did he not bid you warn me?"
"No," said Galen. "Are you looking for nobility? I tell you there is
nothing noble in conspiracies. Pertinax and Marcia have used you. They
will try to use me. They will blame me. They will certainly blame you.
I advise you to run to your friends in the Aventine Hills. Thence
hasten out of Italy. If Pertinax should fail and Commodus survives this
night--"
"No, Galen. He must not fail! Rome needs Pertinax. That poison--
phaugh! Is no sword left in Rome? Has Pertinax no iron in him? Better
one of Marcia's long pins than that unmanly stuff. Where is Narcissus?"
"I don't know," said Galen. "Narcissus is another who will do well to
protect himself. Commodus is well disposed toward him. Commodus might
send for him--as he will surely send for me if belly-burning sets in.
He and I would make a good pair to be blamed for murdering an emperor."
"You run!" urged Sextus. "Go now! Go to my camp in the Aventines. You
will find Norbanus and two freedmen waiting near the Porta Capena; they
are wearing farmers' clothes and look as if they came from Sicily. They
know you. Say I bade them take you into hiding."
Galen smiled at him. "And you?" he asked.
"Narcissus shall smuggle me into the palace. It is I who will slay
Commodus, lest Pertinax should stain his hands. If they prefer to turn
on me, what matter? Pertinax, if he is to be Caesar, will do better not
to mount the throne all bloody. Let him blame me and then execute me.
Rome will reap the benefit. Marcia has the praetorian guard well under
control, what with her bribes and all the license she has begged for
them. Let Marcia proclaim that Pertinax is Caesar, the praetorian guard
will follow suit, and the senate will confirm it so soon after daybreak
that the citizens will find themselves obeying a new Caesar before they
know the old one is dead! Then let Pertinax make new laws and restore
the ancient liberties. I will die happy."
"O youth--insolence of youth!" said Galen, smiling. He resumed his
mixing of the powders, adding new ingredients. "I was young once--young
and insolent. I dared to try to tutor Commodus! But never in my long
life was I insolent enough to claim all virtue for myself and bid my
elders go and hide! You think you will slay Commodus? I doubt it."
"How so?"
Sextus was annoyed. The youth in him resented that his altruism should
be mocked.
"Pertinax should do it," Galen answered. "If Rome needed no more than
philosophy and grammar, better make me Caesar! I was mixing my
philosophy with surgery and medicine while Pertinax was sucking at his
mother's breast in a Ligurian hut. Rome, my son, is sick of too much
mixed philosophy. She needs a man of iron--a riser to occasion--a
cutter of Gordian knots, precisely as a sick man needs a surgeon. The
senate will vote, as you say, at the praetorian guard's dictation. You
have been clever, my Sextus, with your stirring of faction against
faction. They are mean men, all so full of mutual suspicion as to heave
a huge sigh when they know that Pertinax is Caesar, knowing he will
overlook their plotting and rule without bloodshed if that can be done.
But it can't be! Unless Pertinax is man enough to strike the blow that
shall restore the ancient liberties, then he is better dead before he
tries to play the savior! We have a tyrant now. Shall we exchange him
for a weak-kneed theorist?"
"Are you ready to die, Galen?"
"Why not? Are you the only Roman? I am not so old I have no virtue
left. A little wisdom comes with old age, Sextus. It is better to live
for one's country than to die for it, but since no way has been invented
of avoiding death, it is wiser to die usefully than like a sandal thrown
on to the rubbish-heap because the fashion changes."
"I wish you would speak plainly, Galen. I have told you all my secrets.
You have seen me risk my life a thousand times in the midst of Commodus'
informers, coming and going, interviewing this and that one, urging
here, restraining there, denying myself even hope of personal reward.
You know I have been whole-hearted in the cause of Pertinax. Is it
right, in a crisis, to put me off with subtleties?"
"Life is subtle. So is virtue. So is this stuff," Galen answered,
poking at the mixture with a bronze spoon. "Every man must choose his
own way in a crisis. Some one's star has fallen. Commodus'? I think
not. That star blazed out of obscurity, and Commodus is not obscure.
Mine? I am unimportant; I shall make no splendor in the heavens when
my hour comes. Marcia's? Is she obscure? Yours? You are like me, not
born to the purple; when a sparrow dies, however diligently he has
labored in the dirt, no meteors announce his fall. No, not Maternus,
the outlaw, to say nothing of Sextus, the legally dead man, can command
such notice from the sky. That meteor was some one's who shall blaze
into fame and then die."
"Dark words, Galen!"
"Dark deeds!" the old man answered. "And a path to be chosen in
darkness! Shall I poison the man whom I taught as a boy? Shall I
refuse, and be drowned in the sewer by Marcia's slaves? Shall I betray
my friends to save my own old carcass? Shall I run away and hide, at my
age, and live hounded by my own thoughts, fearful of my shadow, eating
charity from peasants? I can easily say no to all those things. What
then? It is not what a man does not, but what he does that makes him or
unmakes him. There is nothing left but subtlety, my Sextus. What will
you do? Go and do it now. Tomorrow may be too late."
Sextus shrugged his shoulders, baffled and irritated. He had always
looked to Galen for advice in a predicament. It was Galen, in fact, who
had kept him from playing much more than the part of a spy-listening,
talking, suggesting, but forever doing nothing violent.
"You know as well as I do, there is nothing ready," he retorted. "Long
ago I could have had a thousand armed men waiting for a moment such as
this to rally behind Pertinax. But I listened to you--"
"And are accordingly alive, not crucified!" said Galen. "The praetorian
guard is well able to slaughter any thousand men, to uphold Commodus or
to put Pertinax in the place of Commodus. Your thousand men would only
decorate a thousand gibbets, whether Pertinax should win or lose. If he
should win, and become Caesar, he would have to make them an example of
his love of law and order, proving his impartiality by blaming them for
what he never invited them to do. For mark this: Pertinax has never
named himself as Commodus' successor. I warn you: there is far less
safety for his friends than for his enemies, unless he, with his own
hand, strikes the blow that makes him emperor."
"If Marcia should do it--?"
"That would be the end of Marcia."
"If I should do it?"
"That would be the end of you, my Sextus."
"Let us say farewell, then, Galen! This right hand shall do it. It will
save my friends. It will provide a culprit on whom Pertinax may lay the
blame. He will ascend the throne unguilty of his predecessor's blood--"
"And you?" asked Galen.
"I will take my own life. I will gladly die when I have ridded Rome of
Commodus."
He paused, awaiting a reply, but Galen appeared almost rudely
unconcerned.
"You will not say farewell?"
"It is too soon," Galen answered, folding up his powder in a sheet of
parchment, tying it, at great pains to arrange the package neatly.
"Will you not wish me success?"
"That is something, my Sextus, that I have no powders for. I have
occasionally cured men. I can set most kinds of fractures with
considerable skill, old though I am. And I can divert a man's attention
sometimes, so that he lets nature heal him of mysterious diseases. But
success is something you have already wished for and have already made
or unmade. What you did, my Sextus, is the scaffolding of what you do
now; this, in turn, of what you will do next. I gave you my advice. I
bade you run away--in which case I would bid you farewell, but not
otherwise."
"I will not run."
"I heard you."
"And you said you are sentimental, Galen!"
"I have proved it to you. If I were not, I myself would run!"
Galen led the way out of the room into the hall where the mosaic floor
and plastered walls presented colored temple scenes--priests burning
incense at the shrine of Aesculapius, the sick and maimed arriving and
the cured departing, giving praise.
"There will be no hero left in Rome when they have slain our Roman
Hercules," said Galen. "He has been a triton in a pond of minnows. You
and I and all the other little men may not regret him afterward, since
heroes, and particularly mad ones, are not madly loved. But we will not
enjoy the rivalry of minnows."
He led Sextus to the porch and stood there for a minute holding to his
arm.
"There will be no rivals who will dare to raise their heads," said
Sextus, "once our Pertinax has made his bid for power."
"But he will not," Galen answered. "He will hesitate and let others do
the bidding. Too many scruples! He who would govern an empire might
better have fetters on feet and hands! Now go. But go not to the palace
if you hope to see a heroism--or tomorrow's dawn!"
XII.-LONG LIVE CAESAR!
That night it rained. The wind blew yelling squalls along the streets.
At intervals the din of hail on cobble-stones and roofs became a
stinging sea of sound. The wavering oil lanterns died out one by one
and left the streets in darkness in which now and then a slave-borne
litter labored like a boat caught spreading too much sail. The
overloaded sewers backed up and made pools of foulness, difficult to
ford. Along the Tiber banks there was panic where the river-boats were
plunging and breaking adrift on the rising flood and miserable, drenched
slaves labored with the bales of merchandize, hauling the threatened
stuff to higher ground.
But the noisiest, dismalest place was the palace, the heart of all Rome,
where the rain and hail dinned down on marble. There was havoc in the
clumps of ornamental trees--crashing of pots blown down from balconies--
thunder of rent awnings and the splashing of countless cataracts where
overloaded gutters spilled their surplus on mosaic pavement fifty or a
hundred feet below. No light showed, saving at the guard-house by the
main gate, where a group of sentries shrugged themselves against the
wall--ill-tempered, shivering, alert. However mutinous a Roman army, or
a legion, or a guard might be, its individuals were loyal to the routine
work of military duty.
A decurion stepped out beneath a splashing arch, the lamplight gleaming
on his wetted bronze and crimson.
"Narcissus? Yes, I recognize you. Who is this?" Narcissus and Sextus
were shrouded in loose, hooded cloaks of raw wool, under which they
hugged a change of footgear. Sextus had his face well covered.
Narcissus pushed him forward under the guard-room arch, out of the rain.
"This is a man from Antioch, whom Caesar told me to present to him," he
said. "I know him well. His names is Marius."
"I have no orders to admit a man of that name." Narcissus waxed
confidential.
"Do you wish to get both of us into trouble?" he asked. "You know
Caesar's way. He said bring him and forgot, I suppose, to tell his
secretary to write the order for admission. Tonight he will remember my
speaking to him about this expert with a javelin, and if I have to tell
him--"
"Speak with the centurion."
The decurion beckoned them into the guard-house, where a fire burned in
a bronze tripod, casting a warm glow on walls hung with shields and
weapons. A centurion, munching oily seed and wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand, came out of an inner office. He was not the type that
had made Roman arms invincible. He lacked the self-reliant dignity of
an old campaigner, substituting for it self-assertiveness and flashy
manners. He was annoyed because he could not get the seed out of his
mouth with his finger in time to look aristocratic.
"What now, Narcissus? By Bacchus, no! No irregularities tonight! The
very gods themselves are imitating Caesar's ill-humor! Who is it you
have brought?"
Narcissus beckoned the centurion toward the corner, between fire and
wall, where he could whisper without risk of being overheard.
"Marcia told me to bring this man tonight in hope of making Caesar
change his mood. He is a javelin-thrower--an expert."
"Has he a javelin under the cloak?" the centurion asked suspiciously.
"He is unarmed, of course. Do you take us for madmen?"
"All Rome is mad tonight," said the centurion, "or I wouldn't be arguing
with a gladiator! Tell me what you know. A sentry said you saw the
death of Pavonius Nasor. All the sentries who were in the tunnel at the
time are under lock and key, and I expect to be ordered to have the poor
devils killed to silence them. And now Bultius Livius--have you heard
about it?"
"I have heard Caesar sent for him."
"Well, if Caesar has sent for this friend of yours, he had better first
made sacrifices to his gods and pray for something better than befell
poor Livius! Yourself too! They say Livius is being racked--doubtless
to make him tell more than he knows. I smell panic in the air. With
all these palace slaves coming and going you can't check rumor and I'll
wager there is already an exodus from Rome. Gods! What a night for
travel! Morning will see the country roads all choked with the
conveyances of bogged up senators! Let us pray this friend of yours may
soften Caesar's mood. Where is his admission paper?"
"As I told the decurion, I have none."
"That settles it then; he can't enter. No risks--not when I know the
mood our Commodus is in! The commander might take the responsibility,
but not I."
"Where is he?" asked Narcissus.
"Where any lucky fellow is on such a night--in bed. I wouldn't dare to
send for him for less than riots, mutiny and all Rome burning! Let your
man wait here. Go you into the palace and get a written permit for
him."
But nothing was more probable than that such a permit would be
unobtainable.
Sextus stepped into the firelight, pulling back the hood to let the
centurion see his face.
"By Mars' red plume! Are you the man they call Maternus?"
Sextus retorted with a challenge:
"Now will you send for your commander? He knows me well."
"Dioscuri! Doubtless! Probably you robbed him of his purse! By
Romulus and Remus, what is happening to Rome? That falling star last
night portended, did it, that a highwayman should dare to try to enter
Caesar's palace! Ho there, decurion! Bring four men!"
The decurion clanked in. His men surrounded Sextus at a gesture.
"I ought to put you both in cells," said the centurion. "But you shall
have a chance to justify yourself, Narcissus. Go on in. Bring Caesar's
written order to release this man Maternus--if you can!"
Narcissus, like all gladiators, had been trained in facial control lest
an antagonist should be forewarned by his expression. Nevertheless, he
was hard put to it to hide the fear that seized him. He supposed not
even Marcia would dare openly to come to Sextus' rescue.
"That man is my only friend," he said. "Let me have word with him
first."
"Not one word!"
The centurion made a gesture with his head. The guards took Sextus by
the arms and marched him out into the night, he knowing better than to
waste energy or arouse anger by resisting.
"Then I will go to the commander! I go straight to him," Narcissus
stammered. "Idiot! Don't you know that Marcia protects Maternus?
Otherwise, how should an outlaw whose face is so well known that you
recognized him instantly--how should he dare to approach the palace?"
The centurion touched his forehead.
"Mad, I daresay! Go on in. Get Marcia's protection for him. Bring me
her command in writing! Wait, though--let me look at you."
He made Narcissus throw his heavy cloak off, clean his legs and change
into his other foot-gear. Then he examined his costume.
"Even on a night like this they'd punish me for letting a man pass who
wasn't dressed right. Let me see, you're not free yet; you don't have
to wear a toga. I spend half my days teaching clodhoppers how to fold
hired togas properly behind the neck. It's the only way you can tell a
slave from a citizen these days! The praetorian guard ought to be
recruited from the tailors' shops! Lace up your sandal properly. Now--
any weapons underneath that tunic?"
Sullenly Narcissus held his arms up and submitted to be searched. He
usually came and went unchallenged, being known as one of Caesar's
favorites, but the centurion's suspicions were aroused. They were almost
confirmed a moment later. The decurion returned and laid a long, lean
dagger on the table.