The Falling Star/Chapter 10

E IS in the bath,” said Marcia.

She and Galen were alone with Pertinax, who looked splendid in his official toga. She was herself in disarray. Her woman had tried to dress her hair on the way in the litter; one long coil of it was tumbling on her shoulder. She looked almost drunken.

“Where is Flavia Titiana?” she demanded.

“Out,” said Pertinax and shut his lips. He never let himself discuss his wife’s activities. The peasant in him, and the orthodox grammarian, preferred less scandalous subjects.

Marcia stared long at him, her liquid, lazy eyes, suggesting banked fires in their depths, looking for signs of spirit that should rise to the occasion. But Pertinax preferred to choose his own occasions.

“Commodus is in the bath,” Marcia repeated. “He will stay there until night comes. He is sulking. He has his tablets with him—writes and writes, then scratches out. He has shown what he writes to nobody, but he has sent for Livius.”

“We should have killed that dog,” said Pertinax, which brought a sudden laugh from Galen.

“A dog’s death never saved an empire,” Galen volunteered. “If you had murdered Livius the crisis would have come a few days sooner, that is all.”

“It is the crisis. It has come,” said Marcia. “Commodus came storming into my apartment, and I thought he meant to kill me with his own hands. Usually I am not afraid of him. This time he turned my strength to water. He yelled ‘Christians!’ at me, ‘Christians! You and your Christians!’ He was unbathed. He was half-naked. He was sweaty from his exercise. His hair was ruffled; he had torn out some of it. His scowl was frightful—it was freezing.”

“He is quite mad,” Galen commented.

“I tried to make him understand this could not be a plot or I would certainly have heard of it,” Marcia went on with suppressed excitement. “I said it was the madness of one fanatic, that nobody could foresee. He wouldn’t listen. He out-roared me. He even raised his fist to strike. He swore it was another of my plans to keep him out of the arena. I began to think it might be wiser to admit that. Even in his worst moods he is sometimes softened by the thought that I take care of him and love him enough to risk his anger. But not this time! He flew into the worst passion I have ever seen. He returned to his first obsession, that the Christians plotted it and that I knew all about it. He swore he will butcher the Christians. He will rid Rome of them. He says, since he can not play Paulus any longer he will outplay Nero.”

“Where is Sextus?” Pertinax asked.

“Aye! Where is Sextus!”

Marcia glared at Galen.

“We have to thank you for Sextus! You persuaded Pertinax to shield Sextus. Pertinax persuaded me.”

“You did it!” Galen answered dryly. “It is what we do that matters. Squealing like a pig under a gate won’t remedy the matter. You foresaw the crisis long ago. Sextus has been very useful to you. He has kept you informed, so don’t lower yourself by turning on him now. What is the latest news about the other factions?”

Marcia restrained herself, biting her lip. She loved old Galen, but she did not relish being told the whole responsibility was hers, although she knew it.

“There is no news,” she answered. “Nobody has heard a word about the murder yet. Commodus has had the bodies thrown into the sewer. But there are spies in the palace—”

“To say nothing of Bultius Livius,” Pertinax added. He was clicking the rings on his fingers—a symptom of irresolution that made Marcia grit her teeth.

“The other factions are watching one another,” Marcia went on. “They are irresolute because they have no leader near enough to Rome to strike without warning. Why are you irresolute?” She looked so hard at Pertinax that he got up and began to pace the floor. “Severus and his troops are in Pannonia. Pescennius Niger is in Syria. Clodius Albinus is in Britain. The senators are all so jealous and afraid for their own skins that they are as likely as not to betray one another to Commodus the minute they learn that a crisis exists. If they hear that Commodus is writing out proscription lists they will vie with one an other to denounce their own pet enemies—including you—and me!” she added.

“There is one chance yet,” said Pertinax. “Bultius Livius may have enough wisdom to denounce the leaders of the other factions and to clear us. None of the others would be grateful to him. That Carthaginian Severus, for instance, is invariably spiteful to the men who do him favors. Bultius Livius may see that to protect us is his safest course, as well as best for Rome.”

He had more to say, but Marcia’s scorn interrupted him. Galen chuckled.

“Rome! He cares only for Bultius Livius. It is now or never, Pertinax!”

Marcia’s intense emotion made her appear icily indifferent, but she did not deceive Galen, although Pertinax welcomed her calmness as excusing unenthusiasm in herself.

“Marcia is right,” said Galen. “It is now or never. Marcia ought to know Commodus!”

“Know him?” she exploded. “I can tell you step by step what he will do! He will come out of the bath and eat a light meal, but he will drink nothing, for fear of poison. Presently he will be thirsty and lonely, and will send for me; and whatever he feels, he will pretend he loves me. When the raging fear is on him he will never drink from any one but me. He will take a cup of wine from my hands, making me taste it first. Then he will go alone into his own room, where only that child Telamonion will dare to follow. Everything depends then on the child. If the child should happen to amuse him he will turn sentimental and I will dare to go in and talk to him. If not—”

Galen interrupted.

“Madness,” he said, “resembles many other maladies, there being symptoms frequently for many years before the slow fire bursts into a blaze. Some die before the outbreak, being burned up by the generating process, which is like a slow fire. But if they survive until the explosion, it is more violent the longer it has been delayed. And in the case of Commodus that means that other men will die. And women,” he added, looking straight at Marcia.

“If he even pretends he loves me—I am a woman,” said Marcia. “I love him in spite of his frenzies. If I only had myself to think of—”

“Think then!” Galen interrupted. “If you can’t think for yourself, do you expect to benefit the world by thinking?”

ARCIA buried her face in her hands and lay face downward on the couch. She was trembling in a struggle for self-mastery. Pertinax chewed at his finger-nails, which were the everlasting subject of his proud wife’s indignation; he never kept his fine hands properly; the peasant in him thought such refinements effeminate, unsoldierly. Cornificia, who could have made him submit even to a manicure, understood him too well to insist.

“Galen!” said Marcia, sitting up suddenly.

The old man blinked. He recognized decision sudden and irrevocable. He clenched his fingers and his lower lip came forward by the fraction of an inch.

“I must save my Christians. What do you know about poisons?” she demanded!

“Less than many people,” Galen answered. “I have studied antidotes. I am a doctor. Those I poisoned thought as I did, that I gave them something for their health. My methods have changed with experience. Doctoring is like statesmanship—which is to say, groping in the dark through mazes of misinformation.”

“Know you a poison,” asked Marcia, “that will not harm one who merely tastes it, but will kill whoever drinks a quantity? Something without flavor? Something colorless that can be mixed with wine? Know you a safe poison, Galen?”

“Aye—irresolution!” Galen answered. “I will not be made a victim of it. Who shall aspire to the throne if Commodus dies?”

“Pertinax!”

Pertinax looked startled, stroking his beard, uncrossing his knees.

“Then let Pertinax do his own work,” said Galen. “Rome is full of poisoners, but hasn’t Pertinax a sword?”

“Aye. And it has been the emperor’s until this minute,” Pertinax said grimly. “Galen tells us Commodus is mad. And I agree that Rome deserves a better emperor. But whether I am fit to be that emperor is something not yet clear to me. I doubt it. Whom the Fates select for such a purpose, they compel, and he is unwise who resists them. I will not resist. But let there be no doubt on this point: I will not slay Commodus. I will not draw sword against the man to whom I owe my fortune. I am not an ingrate. Sextus lives for his revenge. If you should ask me I would answer, Sextus planned this murder in the tunnel and the blow was meant for Commodus himself. I am inclined to deal with Sextus firmly. It is not too late. There is a chance that Commodus, deprived now of his opportunities to make himself a spectacle, may bend his energies to government. Madman though he is, he is the emperor, and if he is disposed now to govern well, with capable advisers, I would be the last to turn on him.”

“If he will be advised by you?” suggested Marcia, her accent tart with sarcasm. “What will you advise him about Sextus?”

“There are plenty of ways of getting rid of Sextus without killing him,” said Pertinax. “He is a young man needing outlets for his energy and fuel for his pride. If he were sent to Parthia, in secret, as an agent authorized to penetrate that country and report on military, geographical and economic facts—”

“He would refuse to go!” said Galen. “And if made to go, he would return! O Pertinax—!”

“Fave linguæ!” Pertinax retorted irritably. “I will not submit to being lectured. I am Governor of Rome—though you are Galen the philosopher. And I remember many of your adages this minute, as for instance: ‘It is he who acts who is responsible.’ To kill an emperor is easy, Galen. To replace him is as difficult as to fit a new head to a body. We have talked a lot of treason, most of it nonsense. I have listened to too much of it. I am as guilty as the others. But when it comes to slaying Commodus and standing in his shoes—”

Marcia interrupted.

“By the great Twin Brethren, Pertinax! Who can be surprized that Flavia Titiana seeks amusement in the arms of other men! Does Cornificia endure such peasant talk? Or do you keep it to impose on us as a relief from her more noble conversation? Dea Dia! Had I known how spineless you can be I would have set my cap at Lucius Severus long ago. It may be it is not too late.”

She had him! She had pricked him in the one place where he could be stirred to spitefulness. His whole face crimsoned suddenly.

“That Carthaginian!” He came and stood in front of her. “If you had favored him you should have foregone my friendship, Marcia! Commodus is bad enough. Severus would be ten times worse! Where Commodus is merely crazy, Lucius Severus is a calculating, ice-cold monster of cruelty! He has no emotions except those aroused by venom! He would tear out your heart just as swiftly as mine! As for plotting with him, he would let you do it all and then denounce you to the senate after he was on the throne!”

“Either it must be Severus, or else you!” said Marcia. “Which is it to be?”

Pertinax folded his arms.

“I would feel it my duty to preserve Rome from Severus. But you go too fast. Our Commodus is on the throne—”

“And writes proscription lists!” said Marcia. “Who knows what names are on the lists already? Who knows what Bultius Livius may have told him? Who knows which of us will be alive tomorrow morning? Who knows what Sextus is doing? If Sextus has heard of this crisis he will seize the moment and either arouse the prætorian guard to mutiny or else reach Commodus himself and slay him with his own hand! Sextus is a man! Are you no more than Flavia Titiana’s cuckold and Cornificia’s plaything?”

“I am a Roman,” Pertinax retorted angrily. “I think of Rome before myself. You women only think of passion and ambition. Rome—city of a thousand triumphs!” He turned away, pacing the floor again, knitting his fingers behind him. “Pertinax would offer up himself if he might bring back the Augustan days—if he might win the warfare that Tiberius lost. One Pertinax is nothing in the life of Rome. One life, three-quarters spent, is but a poor pledge to the gods—yet too much to be thrown away in vain. The auguries are all mixed nowadays. I doubt them. I mistrust the shaven priests who dole out answers in return for minted money. I have knelt before the holy shrine of Vesta, but the Virgins were as vague as the Egyptian who prophesied—”

He hesitated.

“What?” demanded Marcia.

“That I should serve Rome and receive ingratitude. What else does any man receive who serves Rome? They who cheat her are the ones who prosper!”

“Send for Cornificia,” said Marcia. “She keeps your resolution. Let her come and loose it!”

Pertinax turned sharply on her.

“Flavia Titiana shall not suffer that indignity. Cornificia can not enter this house.”

But the mention of Cornificia’s name wrought just as swift a change in him as had the name of Lucius Severus. He began to bite his finger-nails, then clenched his hands again behind him, Galen and Marcia watching.

“You are the only one who can replace Commodus without drenching Rome in blood,” said Marcia, remembering a phrase of Cornificia’s. And since the words were Cornificia’s, and stirred the chords of many memories, they produced a sort of halfway resolution.

“It is now or never,” Marcia said, goading him.

But Pertinax shook his head.

“I am not convinced, though I would do my best to save Rome from Severus. Dioscuri!—do you realize, this plot to make me emperor is known to not more than a dozen—”

“Therein safety lies,” said Marcia. “Yourself included there can only be a dozen traitors!”

“Rome is too much ruled by women! I will not kill Commodus, and I will give him this one chance,” said Pertinax. “I will protect him, unless and until I shall discover proof that he intends to turn on you, or me, or any of my friends.”

“You may discover that too late!” said Marcia; but she seemed to understand him and looked satisfied. “Come tonight to the palace— Galen,” she added, “come you also—and bring poison!”

Galen met her gaze and shut his lips tight.

“Galen,” she said, “either you will do this or—I have been your friend. Now be you mine! It is too risky to send one of my slaves to fetch a poison. You are to come tonight and bring the poison with you. Otherwise—you understand?”

“You are extremely comprehensible!” said Galen, pursing up his lips.

“You will obey?”

“I must,” said Galen. But he did not say whether he would obey her or his inclination. Pertinax, eyeing him doubtfully, seemed torn between suspicion of him and respect for long-tried friendship.

“May we depend on you?” he asked. He laid a hand on Galen’s shoulder, bending over him.

“I am an old man,” Galen answered. “In any event I have not long to live. I will do my best—for you.”

Pertinax nodded, but there was still a question in his mind. He bade farewell to Marcia, turning his back toward Galen. Marcia whispered:

“Be a man now, Pertinax! If we should lose this main, we two can drink the stuff that Galen brings.”

“There was a falling star last night,” said Pertinax. “Whose was it?”

Marcia studied his face a moment. Then:

“There will be a rising sun tomorrow!” she retorted. “Whose will it be? Yours! Play the man!”