A Pillar of Iron

by Taylor Caldwell

  Marcus reluctantly called upon his young friend, Julius Caesar, who had only a few months ago married the daughter of Cinna, a very young girl named Cornelia. Julius was now a flamen Dialis, or priest of Jupiter, and a member of the ruling populares party. He professed to adore Cornelia, and was apparently devoted to Cinna. Marcus, who loathed Cinna, had avoided his old friend as much as possible. So it took a profound effort on Marcus’ part to go to Julius one hot summer evening.

  Julius greeted him with affectionate mockery. “What! You have brought yourself at last to endure the company of one you believe has betrayed Rome?”

  “Each man to his own convictions,” said Marcus, now forcing himself to keep reproach from his voice.

  Julius smiled at him. The younger man was very elegant these days, and was rapidly polishing that inclination to sophistication and artfulness with which he had been endowed at birth. His sleek black hair, always thin and fine, was perfumed. His toga was of the finest linen, violet in color and beautifully embroidered. All the hair had been plucked carefully from his slender and graceful arms. He had a long neck, and he wore about it an Egyptian necklace of many gold layers encrusted with gems, and he also wore armlets of jeweled gold and a girdle to match them. His shoes were of golden leather with sparkling thongs. His face, mobile and dark and mischievous, expressed his great intelligence and humor, and had a way of changing rapidly in expression. His lips were bright red. Marcus hoped he had not tinted them in a new depraved fashion now going its rounds among the younger patricians. But there was certainly kohl around his shimmering black eyes.

  “You are late for dinner,” said Julius.

  “I have dined,” said Marcus with some formality. He looked about him at the large and gracious house, now lighted with Alexandrian lamps of glass and, brass and silver. Moonlight lay in warm pale shadows on high Corinthian columns in the atrium and in the portico. Lamplight shone on tables of lemonwood and ebony on which were arranged luxurious flowers. Oriental carpets bloomed on the marble floors; marble busts of heroic families and heroes peered from corners. The furniture was elaborately carved. There was a splashing of fountains everywhere.

  “You have done well for yourself, Julius,” said Marcus.

  “Ah, you speak with reserve! But you were always too sober.” Julius wound his thin arm through that of Marcus’. “Let us go into the gardens and drink wine.”

  They went into the gardens and Marcus was taken aback by the formal splendor of cypresses and scented trees, by red graveled paths, by many fountains in which stood marble nymphs and satyrs, and arbors and terraces meticulously maintained to add the greatest beauty and sweetest line possible. Jasmine flooded the air intensely; here the moonlight washed over all objects in a luminous tide, and the wet statues gleamed like white still flesh in it. But beyond the gardens the hoarse and ceaseless voice of mighty Rome rumbled insistently, like the voice of a giant who would not sleep, or muttered in his sleep.

  A female slave of marvelous beauty brought them wine as they sat on a marble bench side by side. Cornelia, of course, was rich, and her father was present tyrant of Rome. Still, Roman vessels were not engaged these days in the carrying of luxuries. Julius, watching Marcus, embraced the waist of the slave with a negligent arm. “Is she not delightful, this pearl of Cos?” he asked. “I bought her only yesterday.”

  Marcus did not look at the girl, and Julius laughed with delight. “I forgot you were an ‘old’ Roman,” he said.

  Marcus held his tongue, for he feared that if he spoke now he would speak sententiously and that Julius would mock him in consequence.

  “Are you a Stoic?” asked Julius, lovingly dismissing the slave.

  “No. Nor am I a priapist,” said Marcus.

  But Julius laughed. Laughter always came easily to him, and that was part of his charm. This annoyed Marcus more. He could not restrain himself. “Do you think you will retain all this grandeur and luxury, and your new power, when Sulla returns?”

  “He will not return,” said Julius. He reached to a marble table for a dish of figs and early grapes and citron and dates. He insisted that Marcus enjoy himself with some. “Sulla,” he said, “will not dare to attack Rome.”

  “No doubt Cinna has assured you of that,” said Marcus, chewing a fig.

  “My father-in-law is a man of much wisdom,” said Julius, drinking more wine. “Did he not choose me as the husband of his daughter?”

  Marcus could not resist smiling in spite of his efforts. He was always amused by Julius’ insouciant utterances, and his high-hearted impudence. Too, he had a great affection for him. He looked at the expressive and youthful face in the moonlight and discreetly sniffed at the perfume which wafted to him from that gay person. Archias had been correct: republics are austere, august, temperate, and masculine, but when they decayed into democracies they became vulgar, base, irrational, feminine, luxurious. Cincinnatus had spoken of the “ideal man,” who could appear only in republics. The only men who emerged in democracies were disheveled creatures, given to recklessness of principle and act.

  “You were always one who had a reason for everything,” said Julius, refilling Marcus’ goblet, which had not only been chilled but was affectedly wreathed in fresh ivy. “So, I do not flatter myself that you have come here tonight merely to renew sweet acquaintance and to inquire concerning my health. You have a purpose.”

  “Yes,” said Marcus.

  “Has it aught to do with the fact that you take a bodyguard with you always, as I have noticed, in the person of that huge Nubian slave with the suspicious eye?”

  Marcus hesitated. Slowly, he fumbled for the amulet Julius’ mother had given him and he decided that it was time to abandon his usual prudence and recklessly confide in another, even if Scaevola had warned him not to tell of his encounter in the spring.

  So he told Julius. Julius listened. The smiling face became quiet, still, intent. The black eyes dwelled fixedly on Marcus’ face. But Julius made no comment. Then Marcus showed him the amulet of Aurelia and said, “Had it not been for this, given to me by your noble mother, I should be dead.”

  “They must have been mad,” said Julius in a low voice, staring at the golden amulet quivering with light under the moon.

  His voice was peculiar, and Marcus gazed at him. Julius still contemplated the amulet, and his mirthful face was hard and dark. “How could you harm them?” Julius continued as if questioning himself.

  “Who are they?” asked Marcus.

  Julius averted his head and answered, “I do not know. Why should you think I do?”

  He stood and began to walk up and down a path, the gravel scraping under his feet. He folded his arms across his breast and bent his head in deep thought. Marcus watched him, then said, “I did not tell you all. One of the men who attacked me wore a magnificent ring, two golden serpents joined at the mouth by a large carved emerald. It possessed some significance for me.”

  Julius paused on the moonlit path but did not turn. “And that significance?”

  “I do not know,” said Marcus. “Is it possible you do, Julius?”

  But Julius shook his head over and over in silence.

  “Scaevola said he believed I was potentially dangerous to someone,” said Marcus. “To whom, Julius?”

  The young man turned and his face was smiling and gay and he came back to the marble seat, sat down and put his hand on Marcus’ unyielding shoulder. “To whom could so kind and amiable and peaceful a man be dangerous?” he asked. “You are a lawyer. You plead undistinguished cases in the courts. You are not possessed of great wealth nor do you know men of power. You are an ‘old’ Roman—” He paused, and the smile left his face and it was as if the moon left it also and it was obscured.

  “Yes?” said Marcus. “I am an ‘old’ Roman. What else?”

  He was startled at Julius’ sudden loud laugh, for it was not mirthful at all. “Therefore, though you are eloquent, you are dangerous to no one! But, tell me. Why did you seek me out tonight?”


  Marcus was so perturbed that he could not reply for a moment. Then in an abstracted voice he told of a search for a magistrate of noble family who would not be swayed in his opinion and justice by any oppressive government, but would be fearless and adhere to the law. He told of his client, Casinus. “I ask only justice,” said the lawyer. “If Veronus is exempt from this law, then it is because he has bribed someone of importance. Are we to be ruled by favor, and not by impartial law? By exigency and extortion, and not by honor?”

  Moved and disturbed, his voice rose and filled the garden with strong and musical fervor, and Julius listened rather to that eloquent voice than to the words. For it had the power to move the heart, to stir it. It was enforced by manly passion and the trumpet of reason, by the thunder of indignation and righteous probity. I see now, thought Julius, why it was judged he must die. Nevertheless, though I am one of them, he must not die. I need him for my own purposes. Does not every ambitious man need a follower beside him who is all sincerity, all justice, all burning with truthful rage?

  He became aware that Marcus had fallen silent. He beamed upon him, struck his arm lightly and affectionately. “My dear Marcus,” he said in the richest tone, “I shall find you the magistrate you desire! A man,” said Julius, his mercurial face changing again to one of deep soberness, “who will hear your case on its merits only, who cannot be moved aside by random interference, and not even by my father-in-law himself!”

  Marcus was a trifle incredulous. “I thank you, Julius,” he said. “My case comes up in the Basilica of Justice, itself, and many will be there to listen.”

  “And they will be touched to the heart by your fire and eloquence and rhetoric,” said Julius. “You will defend the laws of Rome, and demand their equal application to every man. I shall be there, myself, to hear you!”

  Marcus, though still namelessly uneasy, was grateful. Julius clapped him again on the shoulder, and refilled his goblet. He lifted his own. “To Rome!” he exclaimed, and laughed in the face of the moon.

  “To Rome,” said Marcus. “May she outlive any tyrant.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Julius, drinking deeply.

  He accompanied Marcus arm-in-arm to the atrium. “What! You came through these dark streets on foot, with only one slave with you? How imprudent. I will send you home in a litter, carried by six armed men. We cannot lose you, my dear Marcus.”

  While being carried home Marcus arranged his thoughts. Julius, for all his openness and gestures of friendship and love, had become ambiguous and disturbing. There had been about him, for all his youthful laughter, the dangerous scent of power. That may have come from the knowledge that he was Cinna’s son-in-law. Then Marcus, in the darkness of the litter, shook his head. Men like Julius Caesar did not depend upon mere influence and favor. They depended only upon themselves, and therein lay their mysterious and terrible force.

  In the meantime Julius was writing a hurried letter. “Therefore, he must not speak, for he can move all hearts. But it must be remembered that he is under my protection henceforth—”

  He sent the letter by a slave at once, while the sand still clung to the ink.

  Two days later Casinus came rejoicing into Marcus’ office in the house of Scaevola, waving a document high in his hand. “The order has been withdrawn, Master!” he cried in jubilation. “Gaze on this, and see for yourself! Ah, what wonders you have accomplished!”

  Marcus read the order of withdrawal. He could not understand it. He was not a famous lawyer, before whom a bureaucrat would facelessly cower. He was unknown to the vast government power of Rome. He took the parchment to Scaevola.

  “Um,” said the old pontifex maximus. “Now why was this so hastily withdrawn? Veronus has friends of importance.”

  “It is incomprehensible,” said Marcus. “Still, who knows the ramifications of a bureaucrat’s mind?”

  “That bureaucrat,” said Scaevola, “was acting under orders, himself.” He turned and scrutinized Marcus. “To whom have you spoken lately of this case?”

  “But to you, and Julius Caesar. I know no one of importance in Rome, save he, and yourself.”

  Scaevola’s huge fat face with its many chins tightened, became strange.

  “What is it?” asked Marcus, again obscurely alarmed.

  “Nothing at all. I was merely thinking,” said Scaevola. He tossed the parchment from him. He stared at it from its distance. Then he added, “What else have you told him?”

  “Julius? I told him of the attempt on my life. I was imprudent; I disobeyed your suggestion not to speak of it.”

  “I see,” said Scaevola. “What did Julius say?”

  Marcus’ conjectures of two nights before returned to his mind. “He said, ‘They must be mad.’ I questioned him, but he said nothing more. I possibly attached more significance to that phrase of his than what lay in it.”

  “Certainly,” said Scaevola, after a moment. He gave Marcus his satyr’s grin, and dismissed him.

  Marcus wrote a letter to Julius Caesar explaining why his case would not be brought before the magistrate at all. He was about to send it by a slave of Scaevola’s when a letter from Julius arrived.

  “Greetings to the honorable and beloved Marcus Tullius Cicero.

  “I have written here the name of the magistrate you desire, and I have spoken to him of your client. You will have justice.”

  For some reason Marcus was so relieved that that night he called on his young friend again, and was received with even greater affection. “I thought to send you a letter,” Marcus said, as he walked in the garden once more. “But that would have been a surly return for your kindness. You see, it is no longer necessary. The demand on my client has been withdrawn.”

  “Now, that is astonishing,” said Julius with a bland and innocent countenance. He shook his head merrily. “It was a mistake from the beginning. But matters are somewhat chaotic these days.” He insisted on Marcus sharing wine with him and sweetmeats. Nightingales sang to the moon-drowned night, poignantly, and suddenly Marcus was mysteriously relieved of his nervousness which had haunted him since that day at Arpinum.

  “I shall never forget your kindness, dear Julius,” he said, and his heart was warm with love for his lively friend.

  Julius became grave and quiet, and Marcus looked at him questioningly. But the younger man was staring into his wine cup. At last he said, “No, you will not forget. All others might, but you will not, Marcus Tullius Cicero.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There were rumors in the startled city that Sulla was returning by land and by sea, and the rumors were everywhere like affrighted pigeons. To Marcus they were of little interest. He had never admired Sulla, whom he knew only by reputation. And he, himself, was too obscure and of too small a significance to come to the attention of any Sulla. The famous Roman could not be worse than Cinna, he reflected. In any event, it would mean the end of war. When he mentioned this to Scaevola, the old man said harshly, “One ambitious mountebank is no different from another. The people love mountebanks, and they are worthy of them. How does your charming young friend, Julius, receive these rumors of Sulla’s return?”

  “I have not seen him for several weeks.”

  “There are others I have not seen lately, either,” said Scaevola, grimacing. “If Sulla returns and Cinna falls, then Julius’ life will be in danger.”

  Marcus went to see Julius and was informed that he was visiting friends for some time. Marcus did not know whether to be relieved or to be alarmed. While he was hesitating before the chief of the atrium, wondering if he should leave a message, Julius’ young wife appeared, a girl-child hardly past puberty, and of a sweet and innocent appearance. Her small and slender body seemed virginal, and her blue eyes were clear and interested. Her dark hair flowed unrestrained down her back, as if she had come from the schoolroom.

  She smiled at Marcus. “Julius is concerned with many things,” she said. “He has told me much of you. I am glad you are his friend.”


  Marcus was touched, and he colored. “An insignificant friend,” he said. “You do me much honor, Lady.”

  The daughter of Cinna was like a flower. When he left her he could not help remembering the brightness of her eyes, her sweetness, her innocence. If Sulla returned, what would be her fate? She, even more than Julius, would be the object of Sulla’s revenge. In what fearful days do we live! thought Marcus. Once Rome was safe for any honest man, or any helpless woman. Now we live constantly under the shadow of violence and death.

  There had been no letter from Quintus for some time and Helvia was anxious. “He is safe, in Gaul,” said Marcus. “Let us be thankful that he is not in Sulla’s path! Our Quintus is totally without ambitions.”

  “Someone, my Marcus, believes that you have ambitions, or you should not have been attacked on the island.”

  “I?” cried Marcus, in amazement. “I have no ambitions but to be a better lawyer in order that our financial condition be improved. I also have ambitions to be considered at least a minor poet and essayist. Are these things inciting to murderers?” In order to cheer his mother he ruefully told her of Scaevola’s remark concerning his poetry. Helvia laughed, but to Marcus’ pleasure she also showed disapproval of Scaevola’s witticism. “Your last poems, and your essays, received much critical approval,” she said.

  “And two hundred sesterces,” said Marcus. “With which I bought several cows for the island. By the way, my poor Casinus, believing that in some occult manner I had brought about an improvement in his affairs, insisted upon giving me a purse of one hundred sesterces. I will buy more sheep.”

  But he, too, was uneasy about his brother and he paused one hot afternoon in the Forum to visit the temple of Mars to say a prayer to that furious god in behalf of Quintus. The temple was crowded, as usual during wars, and he had difficulty in purchasing a votive light. When he emerged from the temple he saw that great livid storm clouds arched and piled over the city, gathering themselves together like enormous armies. As yet they had not merged. The Forum was plunged into brown gloom, but translucent and umbrous in its shadows. However, the columns and buildings on the high hills glowed in vivid gold from the sun which was not yet obscured. Marcus stood in the portico of the temple, watching the clouds, many of them deep purple or almost black. Lightning was already flashing in their ominous depths. He said to Syrius, “We must move quickly to the Carinae or we shall be caught in the storm.”