ourselves to the wheel. From proscriptions there can be no retreat.'
'Atticus,' Lepidus said, with a snake-flick of his tongue. 'No one will spill more gold than that fat banker.'
He was warming to his work. I learned then that a weak man's thirst for blood is fiercer than a strong man's. In drawing up this list Lepidus was repaying the world for his own sense that he was less than his name.
Antony gave me no lead. He had recently received conspicuous kindness from Atticus, acts which had been reprobated by the Senate's grandees. Now he was silent. His generosity of spirit stopped short of paying debts. I made a note of that, and myself said:
'There are many reasons for including Atticus on the list as our colleague suggests. His wealth for a start; the protection he has extended to Brutus' mother; the effect such a pricking would have on others. Yet I think we should consider the matter more closely. We may be about to embark on a long war. It is not only Brutus and Cassius whom we must confront. There's Sextus Pompey too. Who knows how many years it may take us? Now, proscriptions on this scale cannot be repeated. They must be regarded as a once-for-all capital levy. But when we have exhausted its proceeds, we shall still need money, often in a hurry. Who knows how to raise funds or advance credit better than Atticus or his fellow banker Balbus? They are men we shall need in the future. The wise course now is to bind them to us by manifest obligation. Therefore I move we omit their names from our list. We shall get more in the long run that way . . .'
I pitched my argument low, to convince Lepidus. All the same his lips pushed forward in a discontented pout; he felt disregard again envelop him like a bad smell.
Antony, shifting his pen, muttered: 'I agree. Carried, two to one. Atticus lives.'
'And Balbus.'
'Oh yes, Balbus too.'
The lamp went out. We sat in a thin twilight and felt cold. I drew my sheepskins round me, and still shivered. The brazier which alone heated the tent was low.
Antony spoke. We had waited for his words: 'Cicero must die.'
Neither responded.
'His attacks on me have been past, past anything. Himself spared him - oh, old Cicero is an ornament of our culture, he said - and less than a month after his murder, that ornamental mouth spouted forth: "Is there anyone except Antony and those who were glad to have Caesar reign over us, who did not wish for his death, or who disapproved of what was done? All were responsible, for all good men joined in killing Caesar. Some were ignorant of the plot, some lacked courage, some opportunity. None lacked the will." Those were his very words, they are engraved in my memory. Some ornament, some culture. These words alone should be enough to condemn this most insidious of our enemies. We have the opportunity; surely we do not lack the will?'
Antony's hands trembled on the table. I thought of the old man flattering me, digging his teeth into a fig, interrupting his declamation of his speech against Catiline to heed a call of nature and then resuming it at the exact point at which he had broken off; I felt his old crooked arthritic hands press against my shoulder.
I said, 'As you wish it, Antony.'
He turned a face, moonlike with wonder, on me. Lepidus emitted a little hiss of excitement. I repeated:
'As you wish it, Antony. "The boy," I quoted, "must be flattered, decorated, and got rid of." Cicero has had flattery enough for a lifetime; he will receive honour from generations that have forgotten us. Let that be sufficient epitaph. Let him depart.'
I do not propose to defend my decision now in other words than I employed then. That evening Marcellus urged me to send a messenger to warn the old man of the fate decreed. I replied that the publication of the proscription lists would give him ample warning. As all the world knows, he delayed to act, moved either by vanity or indecision. The manner of his death, which did credit to his virtue, is too well known
'Atticus,' Lepidus said, with a snake-flick of his tongue. 'No one will spill more gold than that fat banker.'
He was warming to his work. I learned then that a weak man's thirst for blood is fiercer than a strong man's. In drawing up this list Lepidus was repaying the world for his own sense that he was less than his name.
Antony gave me no lead. He had recently received conspicuous kindness from Atticus, acts which had been reprobated by the Senate's grandees. Now he was silent. His generosity of spirit stopped short of paying debts. I made a note of that, and myself said:
'There are many reasons for including Atticus on the list as our colleague suggests. His wealth for a start; the protection he has extended to Brutus' mother; the effect such a pricking would have on others. Yet I think we should consider the matter more closely. We may be about to embark on a long war. It is not only Brutus and Cassius whom we must confront. There's Sextus Pompey too. Who knows how many years it may take us? Now, proscriptions on this scale cannot be repeated. They must be regarded as a once-for-all capital levy. But when we have exhausted its proceeds, we shall still need money, often in a hurry. Who knows how to raise funds or advance credit better than Atticus or his fellow banker Balbus? They are men we shall need in the future. The wise course now is to bind them to us by manifest obligation. Therefore I move we omit their names from our list. We shall get more in the long run that way . . .'
I pitched my argument low, to convince Lepidus. All the same his lips pushed forward in a discontented pout; he felt disregard again envelop him like a bad smell.
Antony, shifting his pen, muttered: 'I agree. Carried, two to one. Atticus lives.'
'And Balbus.'
'Oh yes, Balbus too.'
The lamp went out. We sat in a thin twilight and felt cold. I drew my sheepskins round me, and still shivered. The brazier which alone heated the tent was low.
Antony spoke. We had waited for his words: 'Cicero must die.'
Neither responded.
'His attacks on me have been past, past anything. Himself spared him - oh, old Cicero is an ornament of our culture, he said - and less than a month after his murder, that ornamental mouth spouted forth: "Is there anyone except Antony and those who were glad to have Caesar reign over us, who did not wish for his death, or who disapproved of what was done? All were responsible, for all good men joined in killing Caesar. Some were ignorant of the plot, some lacked courage, some opportunity. None lacked the will." Those were his very words, they are engraved in my memory. Some ornament, some culture. These words alone should be enough to condemn this most insidious of our enemies. We have the opportunity; surely we do not lack the will?'
Antony's hands trembled on the table. I thought of the old man flattering me, digging his teeth into a fig, interrupting his declamation of his speech against Catiline to heed a call of nature and then resuming it at the exact point at which he had broken off; I felt his old crooked arthritic hands press against my shoulder.
I said, 'As you wish it, Antony.'
He turned a face, moonlike with wonder, on me. Lepidus emitted a little hiss of excitement. I repeated:
'As you wish it, Antony. "The boy," I quoted, "must be flattered, decorated, and got rid of." Cicero has had flattery enough for a lifetime; he will receive honour from generations that have forgotten us. Let that be sufficient epitaph. Let him depart.'
I do not propose to defend my decision now in other words than I employed then. That evening Marcellus urged me to send a messenger to warn the old man of the fate decreed. I replied that the publication of the proscription lists would give him ample warning. As all the world knows, he delayed to act, moved either by vanity or indecision. The manner of his death, which did credit to his virtue, is too well known
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