Authors: Unknown
'Yes, that is true,' he said.
'Are you related?' she asked, much occupied with her task.
Marcellus laughed, self-deprecatingly.
'Would a humble scrivener be related to a Senator?' he countered.
'Probably not,' she agreed, coolly. 'But you are not a humble scrivener.
You are patrician.' She straightened up and faced him with level eyes. 'It's in
your voice, in your face, in your carriage.' The short upper lip showed a row
of pretty teeth, as she pointed with her shears. 'Look at your hands! They're
not accustomed to work--of any kind! Don't be alarmed,' she went on, with a little
shrug. 'I won't give you away, though that silk tunic may. Weren't you rather
indiscreet to put it on? I saw you in the other one, this morning, from my
window. Wherever did you find it?' She was stooping low, busy with her shears.
'How do you like masquerading as a scrivener, Marcellus Gallio? Are you sure
you aren't related to the Senator?'
'He is my father,' said Marcellus.
'I believe that,' she replied, turning her face toward him with an
honest smile. 'But why do you tell me?'
'Because you seem to like frankness--and because I prefer to tell you
the truth. I have not tried to deceive your husband. He did not ask my name.'
'But I think you would be pleased if he did not know.'
'Yes, I should prefer that he does not know.'
'That is unfortunate,' she said, ironically. 'You are robbing Appius
Kaeso of much pleasure. Were he able to say that he had the son of a Senator
for his scrivener, he would be unbearably exalted.'
'Perhaps you don't understand Kaeso,' soothed Marcellus.
'
I
don't understand Kaeso!' she exclaimed. 'By all the gods! That
is my occupation--understanding Kaeso!'
'He requires special handling, my friend,' declared Marcellus. 'Kaeso is
immensely proud of his power over all these people in Arpino. They obey him
because they fear him. He could have even more power over them if they obeyed
because they liked him.'
'Imagine Kaeso doing anything to make them like him!' she scoffed.
'I can imagine it,' rejoined Marcellus, quietly. 'And if we can induce
him to make the experiment, it will greatly improve the atmosphere of this
place. Would you like to co-operate with me?'
'It's much too late,' she objected. 'Kaeso could never win their
friendship, no matter what he might do for them. And you must remember that the
common labourers of Arpino are a dirty, ignorant lot!'
'They
are
dirty!' agreed Marcellus. 'And you can't expect dirty
people to be decent. They antagonize one another because each man despises
himself--and no wonder. I was thinking about that, this morning. These people
should have bathing facilities. There's not much temptation to get into this
ice-cold mountain stream. It should not be much of a task to build a large
swimming-pool, and let the hot sun warm the water. There is a quarry hard by.
The people could construct the pool themselves in the idle interval between the
melons and the grapes--if they had any encouragement.'
'Ah, you don't know the Arpinos!' protested the wife of Kaeso.
'If they are worse than other people, there must be a reason,' said
Marcellus. 'I wonder what it is.'
'Why should you care, Marcellus Gallio?'
A handsome youth in his early teens was strolling toward them. There was
no question about his identity. His resemblance to his mother was so striking
as to bring a smile.
'Your son, I think,' said Marcellus.
'Antony,' she murmured, with an ecstatic little sigh. 'He is my life. He
wants to be a sculptor. His father does not approve, and will not consent to
his having instruction. He is such a lonely, unhappy child. . . . Come here,
Antony, and meet the new scrivener, Marcellus Gallio.'
'Your mother tells me you are fond of modelling,' said Marcellus, when
Antony had mumbled an indifferent greeting. 'Would you like to let me see what
you are doing?'
Antony screwed up a sensitive mouth.
'Would you know anything about it?' he asked, with his mother's
disconcerting candour.
'Enough to make a few suggestions, perhaps.'
Antony couldn't wait until morning, but went to the scrivener's quarters
after dinner, carrying the model he had been working on--two gladiators poised
for action. He put it down on Marcellus's table and backed off from it shyly,
murmuring that he knew it wasn't very good.
'It's not at all bad, Antony,' commended Marcellus. 'The composition is
good. The man on this side is a foolhardy fellow, though, to take that stance.
What are their names?'
Suspecting that he was being teased, Antony grinned and said he hadn't
named them.
'To do your best work on them,' said Marcellus, seriously, 'they must
have personality. You should consider them as real people, and know all about
them. Let us attend to that first, shall we?' He drew up a chair for Antony and
they sat, facing the model.
'Now, the man on this side is Cyprius. The legionaries captured him down
in Crete, burned his house down, drove off his cattle, murdered his wife and
son--a boy about your age--and took him to Rome in a prisonship. He was an
excellent swordsman, so they gave him his choice of duelling in the arena or
pulling an oar in a galley. So, he chose the arena, and now he is fighting for his
life, hoping to kill this other man whom he never saw before.'
'Oh, you're just making that up,' accused Antony, glumly.
'Yes, but that's the way these duels are staged in the arena, Antony,
between men who must kill or be killed. Now, your other man is a Thracian. His
name is Galenzo. He had a little farm, and a vineyard, and some goats, and
three small children. His wife tried to hide him in the hay when the
legionaries came, but they struck her down before the children's eyes and
dragged Galenzo away on a chain. He fought so hard that they sold him to a
praetor who needed gladiators for the games at the Feast of Isis. Now Cyprius
and Galenzo are fighting, so the people may have a chance to lay wagers on
which one will kill the other. How were you betting, Antony? I shall risk a
hundred sesterces on Galenzo. I don't like the way Cyprius stands.'
'I hadn't thought of betting,' said Antony, dispiritedly. He turned to
Marcellus with pouting lips. 'You don't like fighting, do you?'
'Not that kind.'
'Maybe you never fought,' challenged Antony. 'Maybe you would be afraid
to fight.'
'Maybe,' rejoined Marcellus, undisturbed by the boy's impudence.
'I'll take that back!' spluttered Antony. 'I don't think you'd be afraid
to fight. I'll bet you could. Did you ever?'
'Not in the arena.'
'Did you ever kill anyone, sir?'
Marcellus postponed his reply so long that Antony knew his question
could have but one answer. His eyes were bright with anticipation of an
exciting story.
'Did he put up a good fight, sir?'
'It is not a pleasant recollection,' said Marcellus. There was an
interval of silence. 'I wish you had chosen some other subject for your model,
Antony. 'I'm not much interested in this one'--he suddenly looked into Antony's
moody eyes--'nor are you, my boy! You're not the type that goes in for
slaughter. You don't believe in it; you don't like it; and if you had it to do,
it would turn your stomach. Isn't that so?'
Antony explored the inside of his cheek with a defenceless tongue, and
slowly nodded his head.
'It's worse than that,' he confessed. 'I would be afraid to fight. Maybe
that's why I draw pictures of fighting--and make models of gladiators. Just
trying to pretend.' He hung his head, morosely. 'I haven't a scrap of courage,'
he went on. 'It makes me ashamed.'
'Well, I'm not so sure about that,' consoled Marcellus. 'There are many
different kinds of courage, Antony. You've just shown the best kind there
is--the courage to tell the truth! It required much more bravery to say what
you've just said than it takes to black another man's eye.'
Antony raised his head, and brightened a little.
'Let's start another model,' he suggested.
'Very well, I shall try to think of something that we both might enjoy.
Come back early in the morning. If you will lend me some clay, perhaps I may
have a rough sketch to show you when you come.'
Antony laughed merrily. Marcellus had made a rectangular swimming-pool.
Seated on the stone ledge, at intervals, were figures of bathers--men, women
and children. One thin old man had an absurdly long beard tossed over his
shoulder. A tiny baby on all fours was about to tumble in. Its mother was
coming at full gallop. The large feet and bony legs of a diver protruded from
the immobile water.
'You didn't do all that this morning!' said Antony.
'No, I worked on it most of the night. It's just a beginning, you see.
We need many more people sitting around the pool, and diving and swimming.
Would you like to complete it?'
'It would be fun, I think,' said Antony.
'You can give it a lot of detail. Move it to a much larger
modelling-board and you will have room to do some landscaping. Remember that
big white rock, down by the bridge, where there is a natural basin? You might
put in the bridge and the rock and the acacia trees. Then everybody would know
where the pool is.'
'I say, sir, it wouldn't be a bad idea to
have
a pool like that!'
After a week's acquaintance with his new duties, Marcellus was able to
complete his day's work by mid-afternoon. Antony would be loitering in the atrium,
restlessly passing and repassing the open door to the library. Kaeso had
observed this growing attachment, not without some satisfaction.
'They tell me you are helping to amuse my son,' he remarked. 'Don't feel
that you must, if it's a burden. You have plenty of work to do.'
Marcellus had assured him that he enjoyed Antony's company; that the boy
had artistic talent; that he needed encouragement; and when Kaeso had derided
art as a profession, an argument arose.
'I can't think that a real man would want to waste his time playing with
mud,' said Kaeso, scornfully.
'Clay,' corrected Marcellus, unruffled. 'Modelling-clay. There's as much
difference between mud and clay as there is between Arpino melons and--ordinary
melons. It is not unnatural, sir, a man's desire to create something beautiful.
Antony may become an able sculptor.'
'Sculptor!' sneered Kaeso. 'And of what use is a sculptor?'
Marcellus had made no reply to that. He continued putting away his
accounts and desk implements, with a private smile that stirred Kaeso's
curiosity, and when queried, remarked that Antony probably came by it
naturally.
'You, sir,' he explained, 'have created a successful business. Your son
can hardly hope to improve upon it. It is complete. He, too, wants to create
something. You have bequeathed him this ambition. And now you resent his having
a desire that he inherited from you.'
Kaeso, purring with self-satisfaction, twirled his thumbs and grinned
for more. Marcellus obliged him. Many sculptors starved to death before they
were well enough known to earn a living by their art. Antony would not have to
starve. His father was rich, and should take pride in his son's ability. Appius
Kaeso had made his name important in commerce. Antony Kaeso might make his name
mean as much in the field of art.
'You don't want Antony to be unhappy and unsuccessful when he might
easily make you proud of him. Show him a little attention, sir, and you'll
discover you have a loyal and affectionate son.'
'Ah, the boy has always been cold and disdainful,' complained Kaeso,
'like his mother.'
'If I may venture to contradict you,' said Marcellus, 'Antony is a very
warm-hearted youngster. You could have his love if you wanted it. Why not come
along with me now, sir, and have a look at something he is making?'
Grumbling that he had no interest in such nonsense, Kaeso had
accompanied him to Antony's room. They stood before the model in silence,
Antony visibly nervous and expectant of derision.
Kaeso studied the elaborate scene, rubbed his jaw, chuckled a little,
and shook his head. Antony, watching his father with pathetic wistfulness,
sighed dejectedly.
'It's in the wrong place,' declared Kaeso. 'When the snow melts, the
spring freshets come plunging through that hollow. It would tear your masonry
out. You must build it on higher ground.'
With that, Marcellus said he had an errand, if they would excuse him,
and left the room. He sauntered down the hall and out through the peristyle,
wearing a smile of such dimensions that when he encountered Antonia she insisted
on knowing what had happened. Her eyes widened with unbelief as he told her
briefly that her husband and her son were conferring about the best place to
build a swimming-pool.
'Shall I join them?' she asked, childishly.
'No, not this time,' said Marcellus.
It was mid-July now. At sunset, every day, Marcellus went down to the
nearest melon-field and sat by the gate where the workers from all the fields
received their wages. For a while the people merely waved a hand and smiled as
they passed him. Then some of them ventured to tarry and talk. The scrivener,
they all agreed, was indeed a queer one, but there was something about him that
inclined them to him. They had a feeling that he was on their side.
For one thing, there was this rumour that they were to have a
swimming-pool. When the last of the melons were harvested, anyone who wished to
work on the community pool could do so. Nobody knew how much would be paid for
this labour, but they were to be paid. Everybody felt that the scrivener had
been responsible for this project. Some of the bolder ones asked him about it,
and he professed not to know much of the plan, which, he said, was Appius
Kaeso's idea; and they would be told all about it, when the time came.