Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 102
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Kaeso was distressed. “No! I don’t believe you. Surely you’re at the peak of your power. You were chosen to accept the black stone of Cybele. A magnificent arch is being built in your honor, to serve as the gateway to the Capitoline Hill. The Arch of Scipio Africanus will stand forever as a monument to your glory.”
“Perhaps. Monuments last. Men don’t. As for glory…” Scipio shook his head. “When we met for the first time, before the battle of Zama, Hannibal said something I’ve never forgotten: ‘The greater a man’s success, the less it may be trusted to endure.’ We shall both be swept aside, Hannibal and I, swallowed by the rush of time. Do you want to see the future? Look there.”
He pointed to a senator in the audience, a man in his forties, perhaps a little younger than Scipio. His slender face, seen in profile, was dominated by a beaklike nose. He was leaning forward with a tense posture and scanning the crowd with a predatory, birdlike gaze.
“My nemesis: Marcus Porcius Cato,” said Scipio. “A so-called New Man, first of his family to hold elected office,” he added, with some disdain. “But his neophyte status doesn’t stop him from slandering me at every opportunity, and muttering behind my back about ‘finishing’ the war with Carthage—as if we had any reason to attack a crippled seaport that’s been stripped of her champion, her navy, and her colonies. He says my handling of the settlement after Zama was ‘lackluster, bordering on incompetent’; says I accomplished nothing in the long run because I failed to have Hannibal beheaded and burn Carthage to the ground. He slanders me on personal grounds as well; says I’ve ‘gone Greek’ because I happen to like the baths and the theater. Given Cato’s loathing for all things not Roman, I’m rather surprised to see him in the audience today. What in Hades is he doing here?”
As if on cue, Cato rose from his seat. “Citizens! Citizens! Listen to me!” he cried, in such a powerful, strident voice that in short order he had the attention of everyone in the audience.
“Citizens, you know me well. I am Marcus Porcius Cato. I began my service to Roma when I enlisted at the age of seventeen, back when that scoundrel Hannibal was having his run of luck, setting Italy on fire. Since that time, I have devoted my entire life to the salvation of this city and the preservation of the Roman way of life. Four years ago, you honored me by electing me consul and sending me to Spain; subsequently I received a triumph for pacifying the revolt there. If further unrest broke out again after my departure, I think we can safely say that was the fault of my successor.”
Under his breath, Scipio muttered an obscenity. It was Scipio who had taken control of Spain after Cato.
“In terms of holding high office, some call me a ‘New Man,’” said Cato. “But in terms of the bravery and prowess of my ancestors, I assure you that I am as old as any man here! So, I hope you will lend me your ears for a few moments, and consider what I have to say.
“Citizens! What are you doing here today? What is this decadent spectacle in which you have chosen to take part? Think of it: Here you are, gathered to watch a play based on a Greek original, performed in honor of an Asiatic goddess imported from a land ruled by a king, all to make a group of foreign eunuchs feel welcomed! To all of this, I say: no, no, no!
“How can such an abomination have come about? I’ll tell you how. Wealth and all the vices that spring from wealth—greed, love of luxury, crass opportunism—are leading you astray from the upright virtues of your forefathers. I look about me, and everywhere I see loose morals, loose living, and loose thinking. Now it comes to this: We are deliberately polluting the purity of our religious worship, diluting and demeaning our reverence for the ancient gods who have preserved us for centuries!
“Things go from bad to worse. Importing a priesthood of eunuchs is bad enough, but one hears of even stranger and more insidious foreign cults spreading among the populace. The play to which you shall be subjected today will, I daresay, be bad enough—yet another revolting compendium of Greek obscenities—but recently some senators, who should know better, have spoken of erecting a permanent theater in Roma, built of stone. Are we Romans to become as idle and pleasure-loving as the Greeks?
“You, there, Marcus Junius Brutus!” Cato pointed to the praetor who was sponsoring the games. “What would your heroic ancestor say, he who revenged the rape of Lucretia and brought down the last king, Tarquinius, if he could see this sorry sight? Has our beloved Roma risen to unparalleled heights of glory only to fall into an abyss of shame?
“Citizens, I beseech you! If my words have ignited even the tiniest spark of patriotism in your heart, do as I now do, and leave this place at once!”
Cato ostentatiously gathered the folds of his toga. After a few steps he halted and turned back. “Oh, and one more thing: Carthage must be destroyed!” With that, he stalked out of the theater, followed by a substantial entourage.
A handful of people scattered throughout the audience did likewise, but a greater number began to boo Cato, who disappeared through the exit without looking back. People shifted uneasily in their seats. A murmur spread through the audience.
Scipio rose from his seat. He said nothing to call for the crowd’s attention, but gradually all eyes came to rest on him. The audience fell silent.
“Citizens! If the senator who just imposed on our patience by marring the joyous nature of this occasion had not seen fit to attack me personally—something he appears to do compulsively, like a man with an uncontrollable twitch—I would not presume to try your patience further by addressing you myself. However, I feel obliged, first, to say this: A man who leaves a mess behind him has no business casting aspersions on the man who comes after him. Just as I had to clean up the mess left behind by Hannibal’s elephants,’ so I had to clean up the mess that Cato left behind in Spain.”
The audience burst into laughter. The tension left in Cato’s wake was dispersed in an instant.
“Second: If, after all my years of service to the Roman people, I have any claim to speak on their behalf, allow me to apologize to our guests of honor, the priests of the goddess Cybele, for the aspersions cast upon them by the senator. I assure you, not all Romans are so boorish and inhospitable.”
The galli, who had sat stone-faced through Cato’s harangue, smiled and nodded to acknowledge Scipio’s courtesy.
“Likewise, allow me to apologize for the uncouth words that my colleague addressed to you, Marcus Junius Brutus, generous sponsor of these festivities. Instead of citing your great ancestor to make a dubious rhetorical point, let him use the example of one of his own famous ancestors. Oh, but I’m forgetting—Cato has no famous ancestors.”
Brutus laughed and called out, “Here, here! Well said, Africanus!”
“As for all the other drivel that spilled from the senator’s mouth, I will say only this.” Scipio gestured to Plautus. “In the terrible year of Cannae, all the might of Hannibal could not stop the performance of this playwright’s work. Surely a temper tantrum by Cato will not stop it today. The show must go on!”
Laughing and applauding, the audience leaped to their feet and gave Scipio a joyous ovation.
The crowd’s response reassured Kaeso. Here was proof, he thought, that Scipio’s gloomy fears about the future were unfounded. But what a burden his friend had to bear, enduring the abuse of men like Cato! Whatever Kaeso’s own petty problems, at least he did not have to worry about ruthless rivals plotting his downfall. Perhaps there was something to be said for leading an insignificant life. He thought of Hannibal’s words to Scipio, but reversed their meaning. He muttered aloud, “The smaller a man’s success, the more it may be trusted to endure.”
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