Caesar Dies - Talbot Mundy
"You are he! Rome trusts you. So does the senate," said Cornificia.
"Marcia trusts me. The praetorian guard trusts her. If I can persuade
Marcia that her life is in danger from Commodus--"
"But how?" Daedalus interrupted.
"We can take the praetorian guard by surprise," Cornificia went on,
ignoring him. "They can be tricked into declaring for the man whom
Marcia's friends nominate. Having once declared for him they will be
too proud of having made an emperor, and too unwilling to seem
vacillating, to reverse themselves in any man's favor, even though he
should command six legions. The senate will gladly accept one who has
governed Rome as frugally as Pertinax has done. If the senate confirms
the nominee of the praetorian guard, the Roman populace will do the rest
by acclamation. Then, three months of upright government--deification
by the senate--"
Pertinax laughed explosively--an honest, chesty laugh, unqualified by
any subtleties, suggesting a trace of the peasantry from which he
sprang. It made Cornificia wince.
"Can you imagine me a god?" he asked.
"I can imagine you an emperor," said Sextus. "It is true; you have no
following among the legions just at present. But I make one, and there
are plenty of energetic men who think as I do. My friend Norbanus here
will follow me. My father--"
Noises near the open window interrupted him. An argument seemed to be
going on between the slaves whom Pertinax had set to keep the roisterers
away and some one who demanded admission. Near at hand was a woman's
voice, shrilling and scolding. Then another voice--Scylax, the slave
who had ridden the red mare. Pertinax strode to the window again and
leaned out. Cornificia whispered to Galen:
"If the truth were known, he is afraid of Flavia Titiana. As a wife she
is bad enough, but as an empress--"
Galen nodded.
"If you love your Pertinax," he answered, "keep him off the throne! He
has too many scruples."
She frowned, having few, which were firm and entirely devoted to
Pertinax' fortune.
"Love him? I would give him up to see him deified!" she whispered; and
again Galen nodded, deeply understanding.
"That is because you have never had children," he assured her, smiling.
"You mother Pertinax, who is more than twice your age--just as Marcia
has mothered that monster Commodus until her heart is breaking."
"But I thought you were Pertinax' friend?"
"So I am."
"And his urgent adviser to--"
"Yes, so I was. I have changed my opinion; only the maniacs never do
that. Pertinax would make a splendid minister for Lucius Severus; and
the two of them could bring back the Augustan days. Persuade him to it.
He must forget he hates him."
"Let him come!" said the voice of Pertinax. He was still leaning out,
with one hand on a marble pillar, much more interested in the moonlit
view of revelry than in the altercation between slaves. He strolled
back and stood smiling at Cornificia, his handsome face expressing
satisfaction but a rather humorous amusement at his inability to
understand her altogether.
"Are you like all other women?" he asked. "I just saw a naked woman
stab a man with her hairpin and kick his corpse into the shrubbery
before the breath was out of it!"
"Galen has deserted you," said Cornificia. The murder was
uninteresting; nobody made any comment.
"Not he!" Pertinax answered, and went and sat on Galen's couch. "You
find me not man enough for the senate to make a god of me--is that it,
Galen?"
"Too much of a man to be an emperor," said Galen, smiling amid wrinkles.
"By observing a man's virtues one may infer what his faults are. You
would try to rule the empire honestly, which is impossible. A more
dishonest man would let it rule itself and claim the credit, whereas you
would give the praise to others, who would shoulder off the work and all
the blame on to you. An empire is like a human body, which heals itself
if the head will let it. Too many heads--a conference of doctors--and
the patient dies! One doctor, doing nothing with an air of confidence,
and the patient gets well! There, I have told you more than all the
senate knows!"
Came Scylax, out of breath, less menial than most men's slaves, his head
and shoulders upright and the hand that held a letter thrust well
forward as if what he had to do were more important than the way he did
it.
"This came," he said, standing beside Sextus' couch. "Cadmus brought
it, running all the way from Antioch."
His hand was trembling; evidently Cadmus had by some means learned the
contents of the letter and had told.
"I and Cadmus--" he said, and then hesitated.
"What?"
"--are faithful, no matter what happens."
Scylax stood erect with closed lips. Sextus broke the seal, merely
glancing at Pertinax, taking permission for granted. He frowned as he
read, bit his lip, his face growing crimson and white alternately. When
he had mastered himself he handed the letter to Pertinax.
"I always supposed you protected my father," he said, struggling to
appear calm. But his eyes gave the story away--grieved, mortified,
indignant. Scylax offered him his arm to lean on. Norbanus, setting
both hands on his shoulders from behind, obliged him to sit down.
"Calm!" Norbanus whispered, "Calm! Your friends are your friends. What
has happened?"
Pertinax read the letter and passed it to Cornificia, then paced the
floor with hands behind him.
"Is that fellow to be trusted?" he asked with a jerk of his head toward
Scylax. He seemed nearly as upset as Sextus was.
Sextus nodded, not trusting himself to speak, knowing that if he did he
would insult a man who might be guiltless in spite of appearances.
"Commodus commanded me to visit Antioch, as he said, for a rest," said
Pertinax. "The public excuse was, that I should look into the
possibility of holding the Olympic games here. Strangely enough, I
suspected nothing. He has been flatteringly friendly of late. Those
whom I requested him to spare, he spared, even though their names were
on his proscription list and I had not better excuse than that they had
done no wrong! The day before I left I brought a list to him of names
that I commended to his favor--your father's name among them, Sextus."
Pertinax turned his back again and strode toward the window, where he
stood like a statue framed in the luminous gloom. The only part of him
that moved was his long fingers, weaving together behind him until the
knuckles cracked.
Cornificia, subduing her contralto voice, read the letter aloud:
"To Nimius Secundus Sextus, son of Galienus Maximus, the freedman Rufus
Glabrio sends humble greeting.
"May the gods give solace and preserve you. Notwithstanding all your
noble father's piety--his respect for elders and superiors--he was
accused of treason and of blasphemy toward the emperor, by whose orders
he was seized yesterday and beheaded the same day. The estates have
already been seized. It is said they will be sold to Asinus Sejanus,
who is probably the source of the accusation against your father.
"I and three other freedmen made our escape and will attempt to reach
Tarentum, where we will await instructions from you. Titus, the son of
the freedman Paulinus, will convey this letter to Brundisium and thence
by boat to Dyrrachium, whence he will send it by post in the charge of a
Jew whom he says he can trust.
"It is a certainty that orders will go forth to seize yourself, since
the estates in Antioch are known to be of great value. Therefore, we
your true friends and devoted servants, urge you to make all speed in
escaping. Stay not to make provision for yourself, but travel without
encumbrances. Hide! Hasten!
"We commend this letter to you as a sure proof that we ourselves are to
be trusted, since, if it should fall into the hands of an informer by
the way, our lives undoubtedly would pay the forfeit. We have not much
money, but enough for the expenses of a journey to a foreign land. The
place where we will hide near Tarentum is known to you. In deep
anxiety, and not without such sacrifices to the gods and to the manes of
your noble ancestors as means permit, we will await your coming."
--RUFUS GLABRIO "Freedman of the illustrious Galienus Maximus."
Pertinax turned from the window. "The Jews have a saying," he said,
"that who keepeth his mouth and his tongue, keepeth his soul from
trouble. Often I warned Maximus that he was too free with his speech.
He counted too much on my protection. Now it remains to be seen whether
Commodus has not proscribed me!"
Sextus and Norbanus stood together, Scylax behind them, Norbanus
whispering; plainly enough Norbanus was urging patience--discretion--
deliberate thought, whereas Sextus could hardly think at all for anger
that reddened his eyes.
"What can I do for you? What can I do?" wondered Pertinax.
Then Cornificia was on her feet.
"There is nothing--nothing you can do!" she insisted. She avoided
Galen's eyes; the old philosopher was watching her as if she were the
subject of some new experiment. "Let Commodus learn as much as that
Sextus was here in this pavilion and--"
Sextus interrupted, very proudly:
"I will not endanger my friends. Who will lend me a dagger? This toy
that I wear is too short and not sharp. You may forget me, Pertinax.
My slaves will bury me. But play you the man and save Rome!"
Then the tribune spoke up. He was younger than all of them.
"Sextus is right. They will know he was here. They will probably
torture his slaves and learn about that letter that has reached him. If
he runs and hides, we shall all be accused of having helped him to
escape; whereas--"
"What?" Galen asked him as he hesitated.
"If he dies by his own hand, he will not only save all his slaves from
the torture but remove the suspicion from us and we will still be free
to mature our--"
"Cowardice!" Norbanus finished the sentence for him.
"Aye, some of us would hardly feel like noble Romans!" Pertinax said
grimly. "Possibly I can protect you, Sextus. Let us think of some
great favor you can do the emperor, providing an excuse for me to
interfere. I might even take you to Rome with me and--"
Galen laughed, and Cornificia drew in her breath, bit her lip.
"Why do you laugh, Galen?" Pertinax strode over to him and stood
staring.
"Because," said Galen, "I know so little after all. I cannot tell a
beast's blood from a man's. Our Commodus would kill you with all the
more peculiar enjoyment because he has flattered you so often publicly
and called you 'father Pertinax.' He poisoned his own father; why not
you? They will tell him you have frequently befriended Sextus. They
will show him Sextus' father's name on that list of names that you
commended to his favor. Do you follow me?"
"By Jupiter, not I!" said Pertinax.
"He is sure to learn about this letter that has come." said Galen. "If
you, in fearful loyalty to Commodus, should instantly attempt to make a
prisoner of Sextus; if, escaping, he is killed, and you bear witness--
that would please Commodus almost as much as to see gladiators killed in
the arena. If you wept over the death of Sextus, that would please him
even more. He would enjoy your feelings. Do you remember how he picked
two gladiators who were brothers twins they were--and when the slayer of
his twin-brother saluted, Commodus got down into the arena and kissed
him? You yourself must announce to him the news of Sextus' death, and
he will kiss you also!"
"Vale!" remarked Sextus. "I die willingly enough."
"You are dead already," Galen answered. "Didn't Pertinax see some one's
body kicked into the bushes?"
There was silence. They all glanced at one another. Only Galen,
sipping at his wine, seemed philosophically calm.
"I personally should not be an eye-witness," Galen remarked. "I am a
doctor, whose certificate of death not even Commodus would doubt. In
the dark I might recognize Sextus' garments, even though I could not see
his features. And--" he added pointedly--"neither I nor any one can
tell a beast's blood from a man's."
"Daedalus!" said Pertinax with sudden resolution. "Get my purse. My
slave has it. Sextus shall not go empty-handed."
III. MATERNUS-LATRO
Sorbanus brought the skewbald stallion. Not far away a group of women
danced around a dozen drunken men, who sang uproariously. Seen against
the background of purple and dark-green gloom, with crimson torchlight
flaring on the quiet water and the moon descending behind trees beyond
them, they were mystically beautiful--seemed not to belong to earth, any
more than the pan-pipe music did.
"Ride into their midst!" Norbanus urged, pointing. "Tickle the stallion
thus."
The Cappadocian lashed out savagely.
"Here is a bottle of goat's blood. I will bring weapons, and I will
join you as soon as possible after I have made sure that the temple
priests, and all Daphne, are positive about your death. Now mount and
ride!"
Sextus swung on to the stallion's back as if a catapult had thrown him.
Until then he had let others do the ordering; he had preferred to let
them take their own precautions, form their own plans and subject
himself to any course they wished, after which he should be free to face
his destiny and fight it without feeling he had handicapped his friends
by wilfulness. He had not even issued a direct command to Scylax, his
own slave. That was characteristic of him. Nor was it at his
suggestion that Norbanus volunteered to share his outlawry. But it was
also characteristic that he made no gesture of dissent; he accepted
Norbanus' loyalty with a quiet smile that rather scorned words as
unnecessary.
Now he drove his heels into the Cappadocian with vigor, for the die was
cast. The stallion, impatient of new mastery, reared and plunged,
snorted, came back on the bit in an attempt to get it in his teeth, and
bolted straight for the group of roisterers, who scattered away, men
swearing, women screaming. Throwing back his weight against the reins,
he brought the stallion to a plunging, snorting, wheeling halt in the
midst of men and women--a terrifying monster blowing clouds of mist out
of his nostrils! As they ran he let the brute rear--pulled him over--
rolled from under him, and lay still, with goat's blood from the broken
bottle splashed around his face and seeming to flow from his mouth. One
woman stooped to look, groped for a purse or anything of value, screamed
and ran.
"Sextus!" she yelled. "Sextus who was dining in the white pavilion!"
Sextus crawled among the oleanders. Presently Norbanus came, hurrying
out of gloom, accompanied by Cadmus, the slave who had brought from
Antioch the letter that came from Rome. They were dragging a body
between them. They laid it down exactly where Sextus had fallen from
the horse. There was a sickening thwack as Cadmus made the face
unrecognizable. Then came the lanky, hurrying figure of Pertinax
leading a group of people, Cornificia among them--Galen last.
Sextus lay still until all their backs were toward him. Then he crept
out of the oleanders and walked along the river-bank in no haste,
masking his face with a fold of his toga. He chose a path that wound
amid the shrubbery, where marble satyrs grinned in colored lantern
light. He had to avoid couples here and there. A woman followed him,
laying a hand on his arm; he struck her, and she ran off, screaming for
her bully.
Presently he reached the winding track that led toward the high-road,
with the gloom of cypresses on either hand and, beyond that, the glow of
the lights in the caterers' booths. He was as safe now as if he were
fifty miles away; none noticed him except the beggars at the bridges,
who exposed maimed limbs and whined for charity. A leper, banking on
his only stock in trade--the dread men had of his affliction--cursed
him.
"You waste breath," said Sextus and passed on. He was smiling to
himself--sardonically. "Lepers live by threats--" he thought.
No more than any leper now could he expect protection from society
beyond what he could force society to yield. He had no name, for he was
dead; that thought amused him. Suddenly it dawned on him how safe he
was, since none in Antioch would dare to question the word of Pertinax,
backed by Galen and all the witnesses whom Pertinax would be sure to
summon. He remembered then to protect the honest freedmen who had sent
him warning--strode to a fire near a caterer's booth and burned the
letter, stared at by the slaves who warmed their shins around the
embers.
One of those might have recognized him, in spite of the toga drawn over
his face.
"If any one should ask which way Maternus went, say I have gone home,"
he commanded, and strode away into the gloom.
He wondered why he had chosen the name Maternus. Not even his remotest
ancestor had borne it, yet it came to his lips as naturally, instantly,
as if it were his own by right. But as he walked away it came to mind
that ten, or possibly twelve, nights ago he and his friends had all been
talking of a highwayman Maternus, who had robbed the caravans on the
mountain road from Tarsus. For the moment that thought scared him.
Should he change the name? The slaves by the embers had stared; they
showed him respect, but there was a distinct sensation mingled with it--
hardly to be wondered at! Where was it he heard--who told him--that
Maternus had been caught? He could not remember.
It dawned on him how difficult it is to decide what to do when the old
familiar conditions and the expectations on which we habitually base
decisions are all suddenly stripped away. He understood now how a
general in the field can fail when suddenly confronted with the unknown.
Shall he do this, or do that? There was not a habit or a circumstance to
guide him. He must choose, the while the gods looked on and laughed!
Maternus. It was a strange name to adopt, and yet he liked the sound of
it, nor would it pass out of his mind. He tried to think of other
names, but either they had all been borne by slaves, and were
distasteful, or else by famous men or by his friends, whom he did not
propose to wrong; he only had to imagine his case reversed to realize
how bitterly he would resent it if an outlawed man should take his own
name and make it notorious.
Yet he perceived that notoriety would be his only refuge, paradox though
that might be. As a mere fugitive, anonymous and having no more object
than to live and avoid recognition, he would soon reach the end of his
tether; there was little mercy in the world for men without a home or
means. Whether recognized or not, he would become like a hunted animal
--might, in fact, end as a slave unless he should prefer to prove his
identity and submit to Commodus's executioners. Suicide would be
preferable to that; but it seemed almost as if the gods themselves had
vetoed self-destruction by providing that roisterer's corpse at the
critical moment and putting the plan for its use into Galen's wise old
head.
He must take the field like Spartacus of old; but he must have a goal
more definite and more attainable than Spartacus had had. He must avoid
the mistake that weakened Spartacus, of accepting for the sake of
numbers any ally who might offer himself. He would have nothing
whatever to do with the rabble of runaway slaves, whose only guiding
impulse would be loot and license, although he knew how easy it would be
to raise such an army if he should choose to do it. Out of any hundred
outlaws in the records of a hundred years, some ninety-nine had come to
grief through the increasing numbers of their following and lack of
discipline; he could think of a dozen who had been betrayed by paid
informers of the government, posing as friendly brigands.
And besides, he had no intention of adopting brigandry as a profession,
though he realized that he must make a reputation as a brigand if he
hoped to be anything else than a helpless fugitive. As a rebel against
Commodus it might be possible to raise a good-sized army in a month or
two, but that would only serve to bring the Roman armies out of camp,
led by generals eager for cheap victories. He must be too resourceful
to be taken by police--too insignificant to tempt the legions out of
camp. Brigandry was as distasteful to him and as far beneath his
dignity as the pursuit of brigands was beneath the dignity of any of
those Roman generals who owed their rank to Commodus. For them, as for
himself, the pettiness of brigandry led nowhither. Only one object
appealed to them--fame and its perquisites. Only one object appealed to
himself: to redeem his estates and to avenge his father. That could be
accomplished only by the death of Commodus: He laughed, as he thought
of himself pitted alone against Commodus the deified, mad monster who
could marshal the resources of the Roman empire!
Such thoughts filled his mind until he reached the lonely cross-road,
where the narrower, tree-lined road to Daphne met the great main highway
leading northward over the mountains. There was the usual row of
gibbets reared on rising ground against the sky by way of grim reminder
to slaves and other would-be outlaws that the arm of Rome was long, not
merciful. Five of the gibbets were vacant, except for an arm on one of
them, that swayed in the wind as it hung by a cord from the wrist. The
sixth had a man on it--dead.
Scylax, who was waiting for him, rode out of the gloom on the mare,
leading the Cappadocian, and reined in near the gibbet, not quite sure
yet who it was who strode toward him. Scared by the stench, the horses
became difficult to manage. The leading-rein passed around one of the
gibbets. Sextus ran forward to help. The Cappadocian broke the rein and
Scylax galloped after him.
So Sextus stood alone beside the rough-hewn tree-trunk, to which was
tied the body of a man who had been dead, perhaps, since sunset. He had
not been torn yet by the vultures. Morbid curiosity--a fellow feeling
for a victim, as the man might well be, of the same injustice that had
made an outlaw of himself--impelled Sextus to step closer. He could not
see the face, which was drooped forward; but there was a parchment,
held spread on a stick, like a sail on a spar, suspended from the man's
neck by a string. He snatched it off and held it toward the moon, now
low on the horizon. There were only two words, smeared with red paint
by a forefinger, underneath the official letters S.P.Q.R.:
"Maternus-Latro."
He began to wonder who Maternus might have been, and how he took the
first step that had led to crucifixion. It was hard to believe that any
man would run that risk unless impelled to it by some injustice that had
changed pride into savagery or else shot off all opportunity for decent
living. The cruelty of the form of execution hardly troubled him; the
possible injustice of it stirred him to his depths. He felt a sort of
superstitious reverence for the victim, increased by the strange
coincidence that he had made use, without previous reflection, of
Maternus' name.
Presently he saw Norbanus riding the horse that he himself had ridden
that afternoon from Antioch to Daphne, followed on a mule by Cadmus, the
slave who had brought the letter which had pulled the trigger that set
the catapults of destiny in motion. Making a wide circuit, they helped
Scylax catch the Cappadocian.
Norbanus came cantering back. He was dressed for the road in a brown
woolen tunic contributed by some one in Pertinax' suite. He shook a bag
of money.
"Cornificia was generous," he said. "Old Pertinax thought he had done
well enough by you. She cried shame on him and threatened to send for
her jewelry. So he borrowed money from the priests. You are as dead as
that." He looked up at the tortured body of the robber. "What name
will you take? We had better begin to get used to it."
"It is written here," said Sextus, showing him the parchment. But the
moon had gone down in a smother of silvery cloud; Norbanus could not see
to read. "I am Maternus-Latro."
"I was told they had crucified that fellow."
"This is Maternus. Being dead, he will hardly grudge me the use of his
name! However, I will pay him for it. He shall have fair burial. Help
me down with him."
Norbanus beckoned to the slaves, who tied the horses to a near-by tree.
They sought in the dark for a hole that would do for a grave, since they
had no burying tools, stumbling on a limestone slab at last, that lay
amid rank weeds near a tomb hollowed out of the rock that had been
rifled, very likely, centuries ago. They lowered the already stiffened
body into it, with a coin in its fingers for Charon's ferry-fare across
the Styx, then set the heavy slab in place, all four of them using their
utmost strength.
Then Sextus, having poured a little water from his hollowed hands on to
the slab, because he had no oil, and having murmured fragments of a
ritual as old as Rome, bidding the gods of earth and air and the unseen
re-absorb into themselves what man no longer could perceive or cherish
or destroy, turned to the two slaves.