A Pillar of Iron

by Taylor Caldwell

  Once Scaevola said to Marcus, “You have a presence, which is invaluable in law. Handsomeness is no asset; were it so, I should not be a lawyer of success. I do not know what it is, but in your jejune way you are impressive. Nevertheless, you display too sincere a modesty and humility. It is no paradox for me to assert that modesty and humility are worthy in a lawyer. But they must be theatrical—and false! True modesty and humility excite contempt, as does all truth. It is affectation, and histrionics, which impress even the intelligent. Think always that you must impress magistrates, then hypocrisy will come naturally to you. Remember that a lawyer, to be successful, must be an actor, with an actor’s sensitivity for his audience. Do I speak in riddles?”

  “No,” said Marcus.

  “First, my dear, you must impress others that you have some secret power—then you may be as modest and humble as you please. Be confident; tell yourself that Marcus Tullius Cicero is an important man, and tell yourself that constantly, even while you still lack importance. What is importance? A man’s belief that he has more wealth, power, intellect, learning, family or whatever, than his antagonist. It is not necessary for this to be true; one has only to believe it and by osmosis the belief extends itself to others. It is not even necessary for you to be fully informed in the law; one’s clerks can seek out the dusty knowledge when it is needed.” The fat old man shook his head and recited from an essay Marcus had just written:

  “‘True law is right reason consonant with nature, worldwide in scope, unchanging and everlasting. We may not oppose or alter that law, we cannot abolish it, we cannot be freed from its obligations by any legislature, and we need not look outside ourselves for an expounder of it. The law does not differ for Rome and Athens, for the present and the future, but one eternal and unchanging law will be valid for all nature and for all times. He who disobeys it denies himself and his own nature.’”*

  Scaevola pursed up his fat lips and spat. “Nonsense,” he said.

  But Marcus said, “Why is it nonsense?”

  “For the reason that men make laws which are convenient for their political factions and for themselves, when it is necessary. ‘Unchanging law!’ Laws change as men need them to change; as I have said, law is a harlot.”

  But Marcus kept his notes and later used that when writing his history of Roman law. He was never to deviate from his belief that law was above man’s exigencies and his lusts.

  “Where did you learn this presence you possess, for your neck is too long and you are too slender to be naturally imposing?” asked Scaevola.

  “My friend, Noë ben Joel, the actor and playwright and producer of plays,” Marcus confessed, blushing. “He has taught me the posture, the gestures, the motions of an actor.”

  “Excellent,” said Scaevola, inspecting him critically. “You see then, my dear, that histrionics are the most important things in a lawyer’s career. Your voice, when you forget to be respectful, is mellifluous. Can we attribute that also to the astute Noë ben Joel?”

  “True,” said Marcus. “I have a wonderful teacher, Archias. We quote long and sonorous poetry.”

  “I recommend poetry for a lawyer,” said Scaevola, approvingly. “He can learn his speeches, then, by rote, perfecting and polishing them in private, and then delivering them in public without stammering and hesitation—as an actor speaks his lines. While so doing, he can think of his gifts, and thoughts of large gifts can put eloquence in a man’s voice. Money is better than a woman; it never betrays a man. Therefore I disagree with other lawyers who recommend thinking of one’s mistress when pleading a case. It is money which puts fervor in a man’s tones, and passion in his eyes. You will observe that the majority of cases which come to law concern money and property. These are the greatest preoccupations of men.”

  The Social War was succeeded immediately by the war with Mithridates VI. The newly enfranchised Italians discovered that far from being truly enfranchised by Rome, the central government, they could vote in only their localities, and among their tribes. The picture became more acute, more violent. The virtuous P. Sulpicius Rufus, the tribune, attempted reforms in the Senate and sought to bring amnesty to all Italians who had been accused of complicity in the Italian revolt against Rome. “They acted according to their honorable convictions, and there was much justness on their side,” said Rufus. “What more can be asked of a man? And, have we not now given them the franchise, and should we not now extend it to all franchises, and recall the leaders who fought for their honor and justice from exile?”

  Despising the corrupt Senate, he proposed that all Senators who through their profligacy had fallen into debt be removed from their seats. He championed freedmen. He urged that the command of the armies be given to General Marius, who appeared to him less venal than Sulla, though Sulla was legally the general in command of the armies against Mithridates. But Sulla’s fellow Consuls thought they themselves were attacked, when this proposal was suggested against one of them. Now Romans within the gates eyed each other with fury, and prepared for the utmost violence. The Consuls, to add confusion to what was already confused, declared a public holiday. Rufus then armed his followers and drove the Consuls from the Forum. Sulla, in command of the legions in Nola, advanced on Rome to overthrow Rufus. Later he was to enter the city in triumph and in the name of the Republic—which he secretly despised. Marius and Rufus were to flee in disgrace and in fear of their lives. But that was two years later in the war.

  Scaevola had his opinions, but as they were satiric and fatalistic, and amused, his pupil, Marcus, could not sort out any coherence from the general terror and confusion of the Social War. “Have no opinions if you value your future, my dear,” said Scaevola to his favorite pupil. “Agree with Sulla, then again with Sulpicius Rufus, in a temperate voice at all times. But never disagree with them, either! A lawyer, being only a man, naturally has his opinions. But never must they be known, if he is to be successful—and above all, to survive. Let him say, ‘Yes, you are correct. But on the other hand, if you will pardon me, there may be something else in favor of the opposite opinion.’ Let him then be vague and pliant, and appear to be convinced by his opponent. Always must he smile agreeably. He will then become famous as a level man of wide tolerance, and no politician can then accuse him of anything disastrous. He will not only survive; he will become prosperous.”

  “I commit the first sin, then,” said Marcus. “I disagree with you that a lawyer must be a hypocrite.”

  “Then, invest what sums you have in a manufactory of bricks,” said Scaevola. “Do not be a lawyer.” He glared at Marcus. “I have prophesied it before: you will not die peacefully in your bed. Manufacture blankets if bricks do not appeal to you. But, alas, even manufacturers of blankets and bricks are now the servants of politicians! If you do not agree with the current masters you do not receive contracts. It is best to hold your tongue, whether in law or in manufacture. In fact,” said Scaevola with a gloom rare with him, “it is better if one has never been born. How is it possible for an honest man to endure his fellows? By compromising with them. By silencing his own thoughts. By pandering. By becoming an adroit liar. By never offending, even when in opposition. This is called fine manners. I prefer to call it prostitution. But forgive me, my son. I have lapsed from my own convictions, which is not to have any convictions at all, and only to laugh at mankind.”

  He shouted irascibly, “Confusion on you! I am too old and too learned to be depressed by a schoolboy’s candid eyes!”

  He shook his head. “Of one thing we can be certain: war never leaves a nation where it found it. What the shape of Rome will be when this is over I do not know. But it will not be good.”

  To punish Marcus for having shaken him even a little, he forced the youth to play four games of dice on the board with him.

  The early autumn twilight was gray and dull and chill when Marcus was finally released from the dice and the board. It was a long walk home to the Carinae from the house of Scaevola. Torches had not yet be
en lit, lanterns were not yet moving through the teeming streets. But the noise and the smell and the traffic were omnipresent. The gray sky loomed overhead, sombre, unlit by stars or moon. Marcus could not tell if the cold that enwrapped him came from his heart or from without, but despondency slowed his steps and bent his head. He had rarely smiled since the marriage of Livia. He thought each day would lessen his pain, but it did not.

  Sometimes he thought that his burdens were more than he could endure. Legally his father was his guardian until he came of age, but Tullius had no part in the decisions of his son and knew nothing of the finances of the family. He appeared to be less and less engaged in living, and an invisible cleft widened between father and son, which bewildered and pained Tullius but at which Marcus could only stare in suffering and in impatience and with a sense of wrong. Marcus, bereft now of the strength of his grandfather, felt his callowness and his aloneness. He would not be seventeen until the month of Janus, three months in the future, yet he had investments to consider, a household to guide, a younger brother to oversee, a mother to advise, a career to undertake, studies that became daily more complicated. He had also his private grief.

  As he walked home tonight his desolation almost overwhelmed him. His life was narrow and restricted, full of duties. There was none of the lightness of youth to give his days any gayety; he had no friends; the family could not entertain because of its recent bereavement and the war and lack of money. There were no warriors in the family, none of the excitement of war. There were only taxes. Marcus felt as hopeless as the grave.

  He suddenly remembered that he should be at his fencing class, before going home. Sighing, he pushed against a slowly moving wall of humanity in another direction.

  The fencing school was patronized not only by young boys but by officers and men in their middle-age, and was famous. The master was one Gaius, and he had several teachers, all masters of the art. The school was lighted with lanterns, and when Marcus opened the door he felt a blast of warmth from sweating bodies. The teachers were in full occupation; the air was filled with shouts, admonitions, the clash of guarded swords. Gaius moved about from group to group, watching, shaking his head, advising. Marcus put his books on a stool, removed his mantle and long tunic, and stood in a short tunic of gray wool. He took his sword from its peg on the plastered wall and looked about for an unengaged teacher or a skilled opponent. He felt very tired and isolated.

  Three officers were laughing heartily at one group. They were young men in full armor, and helmeted. They stood with their thumbs in their leather belts, their armored legs apart. They joked, goaded the sweating men and youths, taunted, uttered lewdnesses, and swaggered more than a little. The wooden floor throbbed with the best of many dexterous soles.

  One of the young officers took off his helmet, and Marcus, who had just finished assuring himself that the guard was firm on his sword-point, glanced up. He saw ruddy hair and a handsome profile. He had not seen these for years, but his heart lurched. He recognized Lucius Sergius Catilina immediately, and also his companions, the slight fair Cneius Piso and the tall, grim and dark-faced Quintus Curius, cousin to Livia.

  Lucius wiped his magnificent face on a kerchief, which he then carelessly tucked in his belt. The three friends were intent on a group of three fencers and teachers. Marcus stood, rigid, and watched them, his face very white and still. If he could have moved he would have hung up his sword again, snatched on his long tunic and mantle, seized his books and fled. But he could only stand there, paralyzed, and gaze at the husband of Livia and hate him with a wild and desperate hatred. His heart trembled and roared in his ears; his lungs seemed to have shut themselves off from air; his flesh crept and shivered, and his blood pounded. There was a stricture about his throat, like fingers of iron, and sickness crawled in his belly.

  If Lucius had been handsome years before, he looked now like a god, like a young Mars. He did not pose; his body was full of the lines of heroic grace. He had an aura of intense magnetism about him, which held the eye. When he threw back his head to laugh his brilliant white teeth flashed in the lantern light. He stood with his hands on his hips and shouted mockeries, or turned to his friends for a jest.

  Gaius, the master, a short fat man, paused before the three, and Lucius clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. Marcus, through all the roaring in his ears, heard his voice clearly. “There is not one here that I should recommend to my general, Gaius,” he said. It was an insult, but the master only smiled, not obsequiously but with genuine amusement and liking.

  “You were one of my best fencers, Lucius,” he said. “Why do you not show my pupils, the younger ones, a display of your talent? Or you, Cneius, or you, Curius?”

  “No, no!” cried Lucius. “These are but schoolboys! There is none here we know; we but paused on the way to a fine dinner.” He looked about him with his tremendous, smiling charm, and his eyes reached Marcus against the farthest wall. The smile did not disappear; it only changed, lost its charm and became ugly.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Lucius. “There is one we know! Look, Cneius. Look, Curius. Do we not know him, or am I mistaken? Is it a freedman, a fuller? I seem to remember those undistinguished features. Quick! You must tell me.”

  His friends swung about and stared at Marcus and recognized him.

  “It is the vetch, for a certainty,” said Curius. “Chick-pea,” said Cneius.

  They burst into loud laughter, and stared at Marcus who could only stare at Lucius, with the terrible hatred growing in him, with the terrible urge to kill taking over his senses. He had felt it only once before, when he had been but nine years old, and he had felt it for this man. His hands sweated. Not looking away from Lucius, he rubbed his palms on his tunic. The sword in his right hand felt as light as a wand; it shook in his fingers as if it had a life of its own and wished to leap straight at the heart of young Catilina. For here was the desecrator of Livia, and the despoiler of his, Marcus’, life and hope.

  “You have frightened him, Lucius,” said Cneius in a soothing voice. “His loincloth is now probably overflowing.”

  Marcus heard the words; his nostrils distended, and now his tight lungs expanded in a great breath. But still he could look only at Lucius in a deadly silence. Gaius was staring at him. The master was fond of him, and his sharp eyes narrowed in uncertainty, both at the youth’s expression and the faces of the three friends.

  “What is it, Marcus?” he asked.

  Lucius replaced his helmet. He strolled toward his old enemy then paused before him, looking him up and down as if he were a base fellow, an intruding slave. “Do you have such as this fuller’s grandson in your school, my Gaius?” he asked.

  “Marcus Tullius Cicero is one of my most talented pupils,” said Gaius. Now his round face flushed with annoyance. He felt danger in the air.

  “Then you have fallen on evil days,” said Lucius. His friends moved to his side, laughing. “I thought you accepted only men and boys of family and name, and not such as—this.” He lightly extended his booted foot and tapped Marcus on the knee with it, as one would touch a dog.

  Without consciously willing it Marcus slapped aside the foot with the flat of his sword. He said to himself, with calmness, I must kill him. I shall surely die of frustration if I do not kill him!

  As if a signal had been given, or a command, the room fell silent. The teachers and their pupils stood with half-raised swords, and stared at the group. The lanterns flickered; dust swirled in the air.

  Then Lucius, his teeth glittering, drew his sword, and the sound was a clash in the silence. Gaius caught his arm, in dismay.

  “What is this?” he exclaimed. “This is my school! This is no arena, Lucius! Are you mad?”

  “It is but an animal,” said Cneius with contempt. “Let Lucius run him through, and then bury him in your garden.”

  Gaius was frightfully alarmed. “Stop!” he cried, seizing Lucius’ arm more tightly. “I will not have murder done in my school! Marcus Cicero is one o
f my honorable pupils; I knew his grandfather well. Will you force me to call the guard? In the name of the gods, gentlemen, leave my school at once!”

  “We are officers of the army of Rome,” said Curius. “Lucius has been insulted by the son of a slave, or worse. Is he armored? Is he a man? No. Is he a soldier? No. And Lucius has been offended by such as he.”

  “Murder!” shouted Gaius. “Would Lucius, who is an honorable man, murder a younger who is but a pupil, and has a guard on his sword, which is only a light shaft?”

  Lucius did not look away from Marcus. But he sheathed his sword. “Give me one like his,” he said through his teeth.

  “One with a guard,” pleaded Gaius, desperately. “This is but a school.”

  “With a guard,” said Lucius, nodding. “As you have said, my Gaius, this is a school, not an arena or a battlefield or a field of honor. I will bring this low-born rascal to his knees, and it will be enough for me.”

  He lifted his hand and struck Marcus across his cheek. “There is my challenge, Chick-pea,” he said.

  Still not looking away from the tense quiet face of his enemy, Lucius stripped himself quickly of his armor until he stood only in his boots and his red tunic. His friends deftly accepted the armor from him, and began to laugh again. Gaius thrust a light, guarded sword into Lucius’ hand.

  “On guard, Chick-pea,” said Lucius, and fell at once into a strong and graceful posture of attack. He was smiling once more, his teeth flashing.

  I must kill him, thought Marcus. But there was the guard on his sword. Then he thought, I must humble him at the very least and drive him to his knees.

  The teachers and their pupils, wide-eyed and holding their breath and their faces shining with excitement, spread themselves against the walls. There was a sudden wide and open space about the antagonists. Their swords crossed at once.

  Marcus was more than two years younger, and much lighter. He had had no training in the army and he was no athlete. He felt the pressure of Lucius’ sword on his, a strong and steady pressure beyond anything he had ever felt before. This man was not only a soldier, trained in the legions and on the battlefield. He was one of the finest athletes in Rome, one of the most notable swordsmen. He had killed before.