III.

THE PREFECT.

Profound silence in the chamber where the Prefect has retired for his afternoon rest. Sun shades temper the light. Outside, in the cypress trees of the neglected garden of the temple of Tellus, the crickets have begun their shrill monotonous song. The Prefect is stretched out on his couch, but he is not asleep. The unrolled ma.n.u.script, draped across his knees, hangs down to the floor. He should feel heavy and languid, as one does after a protracted undertaking has been brought to a successful conclusion. But he is restless and uncomfortably hot, even without his toga. He moves from the cus.h.i.+ons to the marble bench where a slight cool breeze wafts from the shade of the cypress trees. He reaches for his writing gear.

Providence (his hand is unsteady) has bestowed on me, after ten years, the means of executing, in the spirit of the law, a sentence which was at one time incompletely carried out. In the case of C.C. (he hesitates before inscribing the initials in the wax), still a pagan in heart and soul. His remarks about the martyrs, the Church, the faithful! Repeatedly insulting the exalted Honorius. His ma.n.u.script one long testament of scorn, tedium vitae, defeatism. Left to himself he has fallen back among the sc.u.m of society. The ma.n.u.script contains more than enough evidence of the inclinations of Marcus Anicius Rufus, which const.i.tute a danger to the security of the state. This releases us from the necessity of delving into the question of last night's gathering.

Concerning Pylades and a.s.sociates: very imprudent, not to say reckless. That soulless trash is really useless. Make short shrift of them. The woman U. held for now in secure custody. Rigorous interrogation? No word about me. Digressions about everything and everyone, allusions to the cesspool in Alexandria, but no word about who rescued him from there, saved his soul from eternal d.a.m.nation, enabled him to achieve the status he sought so that he could a.s.sociate with the marvellous, treacherous top dogs. Not a word.

With a spatula, the Prefect smooths over the wax of the writing tablet, wiping out the words he has just written. He presses his fists against his closed eyes (elbows on the table) - a prematurely aged man, but with something immature in the shape of his neck and shoulders and his slender hairless arms. His secretary, who comes to fetch him about the fourth hour of the afternoon, finds him in that position.

"Clarissime, it's time. Your toga..."

The Prefect of the City to Marcus Anicius Rufus, Marcellinus Maximus, Flaccus Vescularius, Gaius Agirius Flestus, Quintus Fulcinius Trio: "From everything that I learned during the interrogation this morning, from the Commandant of the City guard, Aulus Fronto, and from the witnesses as well as from you yourselves, combined with evidence contained in a ma.n.u.script that has just come to light (written on paper from the library of Marcus Anicius Rufus) by the so-called Niliacus, formerly known as Claudius Claudia.n.u.s, who for ten years remained illegally in Rome - I believe that it is clear without further discussion that there has been a violation of the law promulgated by the late Emperor Theodosius in the seventeenth year of his reign, Codex Sixteen, t.i.tle Ten, Article Two: 'The erection of altars with the intention of bringing sacrifices thereto is forbidden as an attack upon the true religion.' Your culpability is established, in addition, by the sense of paragraph three of the same law: 'Anyone who tolerates such preparations in his own house or in that of another is as guilty as if he had in fact made sacrifices.' Finally, I cite redundantly one of our State's fundamental laws: 'Those who by the inspection of entrails or other idolatrous practices, attempt to discover the future of Sovereign and State have made themselves guilty of a capital offense.'

"Only a few years ago, it would have been my duty to sentence you to death. Thanks to the ordinances issued by the exalted Emperors Honorius and Arcadius in the seventh year of their reign, I can now, for violating the prohibition against holding a gathering after the ninth hour of the afternoon, impose on each of you the penalty of paying thirty pounds in gold. And for your intention to offer sacrifices and consult oracles, I punish you with banishment from Rome for the rest of your lives and the confiscation of all of your possessions in the City and in a radius around it of one hundred miles. There is no appeal against this judgment. It will be carried out immediately."

The condemned men have been ushered out; most of the Prefect's officials leave the building. Claudius Claudia.n.u.s has been shut up in a dungeon, alone, to await his final trial. The Prefect has a discussion with those who are in charge of arranging for the expulsion of the five patricians and the confiscation of their property.

Later the Prefect descends the staircase to the vaults. This reality is stranger than a dream. He had not wanted this second confrontation with him whom that morning he had not recognized - had not wanted to recognize - to take place in the hall with the black-and-white floor, nor in the room set aside for private audiences. Preceded by guardsmen with torches, he penetrates to the lower regions. What he is doing is both useless and unorthodox - he knows that. Wrapped in his white toga, he stands outside the iron bars, staring at the vague figure in the corner, and with a nod signals the guardsmen to move into the background.

"Claudius."

No reply.

"As always, I feel responsible for you."

The man in the cell moves a few steps closer, but not close enough for the Prefect to distinguish his features. "The responsibility of the magistrate in this case applies only to the execution of the delayed sentence," he says.

"The Christian prevails over the magistrate. I want to save you."

"I haven't asked for mercy."

"It's not a question of what you've asked for; it's a question of the salvation of your soul."

"Is this intended to be reparations for a judicial error? Am I going to be set free?"

"There's no question of error. I will give you your life. Not your freedom."

"Then I prefer that you slice my head off right now."

"In your case you would not be ent.i.tled to death by the sword. A pagan, born a slave outside Rome, suspected of criminal activities, soothsaying... Such a person usually receives the pyre."

"Into the fire then, like the Phoenix."

"Your recklessness would be ridiculous if it were not so tragic."

"The mime Pylades seemed willing to involve me in the performance of tragedies in more than one sense, in the service of this so-called justice. It would have been a real tragedy if I had let myself be recruited."

"Your insinuations are as empty as an actor's bombast. That actor, by the way, will never boast again - steps have been taken to see to that."

"Undoubtedly similar steps were in fas.h.i.+on ten years ago when I was arrested in Mallius Theodorus's house."

"Don't forget that you were surprised in the act of burying the remains of a sacrificial c.o.c.k. Those circ.u.mstances const.i.tuted overwhelming evidence."

"There were indeed sacrifices."

"Of course you helped Mallius to escape in time."

"Sometimes one does something for one's friends. One comes to their rescue even if one has reason to suspect that an informer has had a hand in the summons - as happened last night."

The Prefect paces back and forth before the bars. The prisoner is now standing flush against the barrier; the glimmer of the torches - held aloft at a distance by the guardsmen - illuminates his face, a grimy bearded mask. A criminal in cheap, filthy clothing. The Prefect could not recognize the spirit which had enlivened that other face, of earlier days, which he had been thinking about since that morning.

"Sometimes one does something for one's friends, you say. Who knows that better than I? Haven't I given you enough proof? I can still do something for you. In those days you refused to listen to reason; you would not be converted. Perhaps now I can help to awaken the better man in you, to save your soul. I haven't given up hope. That ma.n.u.script of yours which was brought to me - it breathes bitterness. Rome isn't lost! Listen, only the true religion has the power to deliver us, to waken the dead, to breathe new life into what seems to have become old and finished. Only the true faith can inspire City and Empire, can bring peace, order, justice and glory! All resistance will be crushed, reduced to ashes in the fire of our zeal. The new Rome is rising now from idolatrous Rome, for those who have eyes to see and ears to hear -"

"G.o.d's State on earth, but the spirit has been driven from it. What is left is the deified State."

"That sounds like heresy. In your ma.n.u.script you mention acquaintances of yours in the Subura whom you take to be Arians. That would certainly interest an ecclesiastical court. I don't consider myself qualified to render judgment in those kinds of cases. I could turn you over to that court..."

"The Prefect of the City has my fate in his hands."

"You acknowledge that I am powerful?"

"Very powerful. In spite of the coming of the Goths, or perhaps precisely because of it, your career is rising steadily."

"In contrast to most of your former friends, I resigned my office when the City was occupied."

"That gave you more time to devote to the management of your own affairs."

"Still that sarcastic tone. I have maintained my property, provided for my inferiors, met the responsibilities of my cla.s.s, while you - you risked your skin by coming back to occupied Rome, didn't you? - according to your own words - you crept into that stinking hotbed of the Subura, where you felt at home -"

"Doesn't the wealthy Hadrian own some tenement houses there - as an investment? There is gold to be earned in all that stench."

"You haven't changed. Once again you want to ridicule me, to place me in an unfavorable light. ..."

"Seize another man's goods. Drive curiales to desperation and then profit from their misery. Buy barbarian prisoners of war cheap and then resell them at a profit to work in the copper mines. Buy parcels of land from bankrupt farmers at ridiculous prices so that you can add them to your own holdings. Use heavy fines and severe regulations in certain districts to exercise a reign of terror among artisans who are barely earning a crust of bread, so that you and people like you can profit more from having the work done by your own slaves. And while you are doing all this, kneel three times a day - if not more - in basilicas and chapels and recruit disciples for a new Rome flooded with the light of grace!"

"In the past you asked me to forgive your sarcasm. You called it a youthful sin. Do you expect leniency again?"

"I expect nothing. When I apologized then, I was appealing to that good relations.h.i.+p that you kept talking about all the time."

"It was not I, but you who destroyed that relations.h.i.+p. Where has he gone, he to whom I gave the name Claudius, and who looked up to me with friends.h.i.+p and respect? For admit it - you were grateful to me because I rescued you from Olympiodorus."

"I wors.h.i.+pped you as a G.o.d of light - a Mithras, a Helios - that's true."

"Have I ever been anything but a benefactor to you?"

"A G.o.d who wants to be wors.h.i.+pped like the sun should not come too close to his wors.h.i.+ppers."

"Who's talking about wors.h.i.+pping? The protection I offered you was disinterested, not like that beast -"

"When Olympiodorus - worse than a beast, believe me, because he knew what he was doing - necromancer, l.u.s.tful torturer, cheat and much more still - When he saw that I was useless for his private pleasure, he offered me work in his library so that I could accept his hospitality without shame as long as I needed to."

"Do you dare to compare me to Olympiodorus? Have you ever felt shame in my house, in my company?"

The guardsmen, holding the torches in this central vault from which the cells emerge, can hear from behind them the voices of the Prefect and the prisoner. As disciplined members of the vigiles, they force themselves not to listen. They cannot quit their posts; they have to hold the torches high so that the light will penetrate the cell. They try to think about other things: they are not interested in lawsuits, nor in the personal problems of the prisoners or the officials they deal with. It is only when the Prefect issues an order that they turn automatically and stand to attention.

"Fetch the wench Urbanilla."

The prisoner, who has a view of the pa.s.sage leading to the adjoining dungeons, sees a vague glimmering light, hears a jingling as of countless little metal plates. It is the Great G.o.ddess in an archaic panelled skirt, b.r.e.a.s.t.s and arms hung with gold, eyes outlined to large glittering ovals, staring fixedly like a statue. It looks, too - he draws in his breath - like Serena, when she stumbled out of the temple, guilty and victimized, both hands raised to the stolen jewelry, unaware that she had been ordained to die.

She stops quite close to him, the comedian Urbanilla in her messy costume, pale, wide-eyed, her filthy strands of hair in a sticky tangle. The gilded strings and beads sparkle on her heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s but she shows no sign of fear. She jerks herself free from the guard and rubs her upper arm.

The Prefect barely deigns to look at her. With an expression of distaste, he turns once more to the man behind the bars.

"Let us look at the state of your sense of shame. Let us now examine your refined desires and pleasures." To Urbanilla. "You will be subjected to the most rigorous interrogation if I catch you in a lie. Do you know this man?"

"Yes. The schoolmaster."

"How do you know him?"

"Through the boss - Pylades."

"You've seen him in the Subura. What did he say?"

"About the sun, the moon, the stars. About a fellow on a raft at sea and a giant with one eye. About how the black people of Africa hunt elephants. About - about Seneca - or whatever her name is."

"To you?"

"To those boys."

"Which boys? Where?"

"Under the awning next to the fruit market where they learn."

"I mean, what did he say to you when you went with him in the insula Iulia?"

"Who knows?"

"What did he want from you?"

"Nothing."

"You slept with him."

"No."

"Then surely some playfulness and caresses..."

"No."

"That's what you came for, wasn't it?"

"I was sent."

"Don't try to make me believe that you could not seduce him. A wench like you knows all the tricks."

"I didn't want to. Not with him."

The Prefect is becoming upset. He perceives a subtle change in the att.i.tude of the guardsmen. They stand at proper attention, immobile, but - he suspects - very conscious of the half-naked woman and surely secretly laughing, astonished at the nature of the interrogation.

Worst of all for the Prefect is the silent presence of the other in his barred cage - he who was the cause of this bizarre performance in the first place. The Prefect feels like a character in a farce by Plautus, comically out of place in his robe of office between a seedy poet and a woman of pleasure, revealing with every word what he would give anything not to reveal, looking ridiculous or - worse - possibly pathetic, in his pa.s.sion. He has descended from those imposing halls with their distinguished symmetry; he should never have left them. Now he must descend further, whether he wants to or not.

"Did he ask for love potions from you, forbidden practices?

"Oh no."

At this umpteenth, casual denial, the Prefect is beside himself. In a voice made unrecognizable by rage, feeling dizzy with dismay at his irreparable error, he shouts at her, "Don't lie! You got him where you wanted him, just as you did with all the others!"