A Pillar of Iron

by Taylor Caldwell

  The thought of Rome was a vehement background to Marcus’ reflections. But he could think of his city objectively now. It was not such a ferocious pressure on his mind. He must return to it, for it was his, but he would return to it soothed and with greater strength of spirit.

  Marcus had dined alone. He preferred this, though Quintus, the gregarious, could not understand. To Quintus, the presence of others was necessary for his ebullient soul. He liked laughter and gay conversation and rude jokes. His handsome, highly colored face would then beam heartily. His jests were the jests of soldiers and virile men. He adored his brother, and was awed by him, but he had come to think of Marcus as somewhat effete, and pale with thought. He had been offended that Marcus had not enjoyed his short, military experience. What was a man except a warrior, delighting in fighting and dying for his country? Those who preferred books and the professions were men of staleness, always complaining that soldiers did not understand the art of civilization. But civilizations were established on war, and conquest. Struggle was vital to life. Men of books preferred their libraries and their dry conversations and their interminable dialogues. Quintus would shake his head, baffled. Still, Marcus commanded his respect and fealty and devotion.

  So, while Marcus ate his simple meal on the terrace overlooking the sea, Quintus joked with the men in the stables and with black Syrius, who had a wry humor, and who loved horses almost as much as Quintus loved them. They all drank great quaffs of wine, and told stories which would have made Marcus wince. They breathed in the scent of manure and found it hearty. All in the inn were enamored of Quintus, with his curling black hair and his ripe cheeks and his bluff Roman manner. Even the Greeks forgave him for being a Roman.

  “My brother,” said Quintus, “knows much about law, but he knows nothing of politics. I am endeavoring to enlighten him.”

  They set off again, Quintus standing sturdily in the car and whipping up the fine black horses, and Marcus reclining on the cushioned seat and Syrius moving along with spirit on his own white horse just at the side of the car. Quintus sang; Marcus drowsed, wonderfully free from the pain and stiffness that had afflicted him and feeling, even in his doze, the returning health in his flesh. The roads were white with soft dust and fairly even if narrow; the declining sun was now warm rather than searingly hot; the sound of wheels and hoofs lulled Marcus. He smiled drowsily at his brother’s loud and ribald ditties, and shielded his face from the light with his bent arm. Sometimes other cars and chariots and horsemen overtook them with a thunder of wheels and a called greeting. They would spend the night near Corinth in a quiet inn.

  Toward sundown Marcus raised himself on the cushions and yawned contentedly. The car was rolling along the road in comparative isolation now, between towns. The west was a silent ocean of gold with not even a small cloud rising over it. The sea at the right was the color of wine and very still. Long green meadows filled with cattle spread to the left. A soft and aromatic breeze was rising from the land, filled with the odor of ripening grapes and dark cypress. To the east the sky was a passionate aquamarine in which floated the threadlike curve of the new silver moon.

  He heard the ring of hoofs behind him and saw two hooded horsemen swiftly overtaking the car. What magnificent horses, he thought, seeing the gleam of their great white bodies. The horsemen rode expertly, cloaked against the dust. Then Marcus became a little anxious. The road was very narrow here, and the embankment down to the sea was steep and filled with large sharp stones. If the horsemen intended to pass the car they must do it in single file and not side by side as they were riding now. “Fools,” said Quintus, glancing over his shoulder. Syrius dropped behind a little to give the car more room.

  The horsemen came faster, with a kind of fury, as if the car before them did not exist. Marcus sat up alertly and clutched the side of the car. Syrius shouted. Quintus pulled on the reins. Then, at the last moment the second horseman fell behind the first and the two swept to the left of the car in a rush of dust and thunder. They met together beyond the car. But now they lessened their pace. The air was full of choking and shining dust and Quintus and his brother and Syrius were momentarily blinded and they coughed.

  Suddenly one of the horsemen glanced back at the car, though his face was more than half-hidden in his hood. Like a flash a long spear shone in his hand, or a pike. He flung it backward; it arced in the light of sunset and soared toward the car. There was a dull sound as the weapon struck one of the horses in the breast. The horse reared with a death whinny; he fell in his traces and the car crashed onto his body. The other horse raised himself on his hind feet and cavorted and tore himself loose from the car and raced to the left. The car upended on the dead body of the first horse and Quintus sailed through the air like Icarus. He fell with a heavy noise on the road, and lay still. Marcus was hurled to the floor of the tilted car, then he rolled backward and fell onto the road, his forehead making savage contact with the level stones.

  Syrius was more fortunate. He had been riding at the right of the car and almost abreast of it. He had seen the flash of the weapon in the horseman’s hand, and had instinctively understood and had slowed his horse and pulled back. So though his own horse stumbled into the car and he was almost thrown, he was able to control the animal and whirl it about on its hind legs. But he was fortunate only for a moment, for just as he was bringing his horse to a stop he felt a second weapon which had impaled him. Then darkness swept over his eyes and he fell dead from his horse and sprawled in the dust near Marcus.

  Now all was dusty quiet. The horsemen halted at a little distance and looked back at the violent ruin they had created. “Let us make sure,” said one, preparing to dismount.

  The other horseman hesitated. He heard, in the deep stillness, the sound of many distant hoofs. “No!” he exclaimed. “Without doubt they are all dead. Let us run across the field so we shall’ not be seen by those approaching! They will be on us in a moment.” He panted and smiled and wiped his sweating face. “None could have survived that, not even Quintus in his leather armor and with his thick head!”

  They swung their horses to the left and plunged into the green grass of the meadows.

  Quintus was not dead, but only stunned. His military harness had saved him, though the breath had been knocked from him. His military helmet had protected his head. Never for an instant had he been unconscious. He was a soldier and he was accustomed to these accidents. He heard the voices of the men and understood what they had said. No sooner had they turned their horses into the meadow than he had risen on his knees, shaking his head, spitting out the blood in his mouth. Alertly, he looked behind him, and saw Syrius’ horse standing trembling near the body of his master. Quintus’ legs were shaking but he ran to the horse and in an instant he was in the saddle. It was a fine horse. Quintus glanced momentarily at his brother and Syrius in the dust, then he turned the horse and followed the attackers, who were small figures racing in the distant meadows. He pursued them, spurring the horse without mercy, and holding his military sword in his hand. His fierce soldier’s mind forgot all else, and so he did not see the company which had appeared at a turn in the road and were now approaching the wreck with exclamations of dismay. He had but one thought: Overtake. And kill.

  It was a company of merchants and their outriders who had come upon the wreck and the fallen men. They dismounted, uttering sounds of consternation and anxiety. They saw at once that Syrius, the faithful black servant, was dead, the pike standing up from his breast. They examined Marcus, whose face was bleeding and whose left arm was obviously broken. Though badly injured, he was still breathing. The merchants began to minister to him, kneeling about him in the dust and asking themselves what calamity had overtaken this company. “Thieves!” said one merchant, and they all loosened their daggers.

  “How fortunate that we came upon them before they could rob and complete the killing!” said another.

  “But who is that who is pursuing the murderers?” asked another, pointing. “Look
”! He has overtaken them! He is fighting with them!”

  Others shaded their eyes from the golden glare of the sunset to stare at the far little figures wheeling in a death struggle and outlined like black statuettes against the background of the wildly illuminated sky. Then, as they watched in breathless fascination they saw one horseman break away and run for his life, leaving his companion to struggle alone with the soldier. An instant later Quintus had plunged his sword into the lone horseman’s side, and the man tumbled to the ground. Quintus was on him in a second, again plunging his sword into the body of the fallen man. Then he was bending over him, very still. He glanced just once at the horseman who had fled and who was by this time too far to be pursued again.

  “Brave man!” cried one of the merchants kneeling about Marcus. “He fought the two, dispersed one and killed the other! See, he is mounting again and returning.”

  Marcus painfully awoke to lamplight to discover himself in bed with the bruised and wounded Quintus sitting beside him. His left arm throbbed like a fire and was restrained with bandages which bound it to his side. His face flamed. He could barely open his swollen eyes. For several moments, as he stared blankly at his brother’s drowsing and discolored face and at the lip which still oozed a little blood, he did not understand and thought he was dreaming. Then horror overtook him as he remembered the senseless attack on the road. Thieves! he thought. But there, on the table nearby, close to the flickering lamp, lay his purses, his Alexandrian dagger studded with jewels.

  “Quintus!” he whispered. Quintus, the soldier, who could sleep deeply one second and be instantly and fully awake the next, started upright in the big oaken chair in which he had been drowsing. His bleeding mouth spread in a smile, and Marcus saw that one tooth was missing. He also saw, with growing dread, that Quintus’ left arm was bandaged and that the bandage was stained with blood. He saw the many contusions on his brave brother’s face.

  “Eheu!” said Quintus. “We are alive, and that is all that matters.”

  “Thieves?” said Marcus, his bruised throat making every sound an agony.

  “No, not thieves,” said Quintus. His torn face became grave and heavy. He breathed deeply. “I must make a special sacrifice to Mars, who saved us. We were intended to die.” His voice was hoarse and labored. He told Marcus briefly what had happened. Marcus began to weep.

  “Let us be grateful that we, too, were not murdered,” said Quintus. “For, our deaths were planned. Had the merchants not approached fortuitously we should now be greeting Pluto in the palace of the shades, for the horsemen would have made sure that we were dead. I never admired merchants greatly, but these were kind and good and thoughtful, and they have brought us to this inn and three of their servants are now guarding our door.” Quintus paused. “They, too, understand that we were set upon by murderers, not thieves.”

  “Who, then?” said Marcus.

  Quintus reached awkwardly into his pouch and took an object from it, then opened his big brown palm and showed Marcus something small and glittering.

  “Do you not recognize this?” he asked. “You told me of it at one time, years ago. I took it from the dead hand of one of those who wished to assassinate us.”

  Marcus blinked at the jeweled serpentine ring in his brother’s hand, and his dread became an overwhelming thing. He could not speak. Quintus, with a gesture of disgust, flung it upon the table. He said, “When I saw it, I began to understand. You were the object of the attack. It was you they wished to kill.”

  Now Marcus could speak faintly. “You did not recognize either of them, Quintus?”

  “No, I never saw either before, but they were Romans. And, as they fought, I realized they were also soldiers, well-trained and dexterous.”

  The two brothers regarded each other in silence.

  Quintus marveled as if to himself: “You are no great officer who has incurred military envies. You are no general on which his men wish to be avenged. You are but a civilian, a lawyer of Rome. You are not even a politician who has been oppressive; you hold no office. You are no man’s enemy, nor have you plotted the death of anyone of consequence. You do not stand in the councils of the mighty. It is true that you have some fame in Rome, as an advocate. Why, then, Marcus, is your death so ardently desired?” Quintus laughed briefly. “You are not a libertine, nor have you seduced the wife of any noble man who wishes to avenge his honor! It is a mystery.”

  “Yes,” said Marcus.

  “It was intended to appear as an accident, or an attack by thieves,” said Quintus. “Another mystery is why they waited so long. Your death was planned; they could have poisoned your food at Epidaurus.”

  “Then it would not have appeared as an accident, or as the work of thieves,” said Marcus, sick with his horror. He added, “But why?”

  Quintus shrugged, then yelped a little at the pain the shrug induced. “Who knows? But it is obvious that your death is greatly desired.”

  Safe at last in the home of Atticus, his publisher, on the flank of one wooded hill facing the Acropolis, Marcus wrote to Julius Caesar in Rome.

  “Greetings to the noble Julius Caesar from his friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero:

  “I am returning a ring with which I believe you are familiar. It was taken from the dead hand of one of two horsemen who attacked me and my brother, Quintus, on the road from Epidaurus to Athens two weeks ago. Considering that I have seen such a ring before when my death was attempted at Arpinum, as I told you years ago, I can come to no other conclusion but that the same men again desired my death.

  “I have loved you always as a younger brother. I cannot force myself to believe that you are responsible for this second attack on my person, nor that you were responsible before. Nevertheless, I am assured in my heart that you are aware of the persons who wish me dead, and that it is even possible that you are one of the company. Your lies, therefore, will not be appreciated, Julius. I am in no mood for evasions, nor will my suspicions be put aside even by your smooth protestations. I grieve for my devoted Syrius, who was presented to me by my old mentor, Scaevola, and who died in my service. I have sacrificed for the repose of his soul. I shall never forgive those who caused his innocent death. One day I will avenge him.

  “Return the ring to your friend, Julius, and inform him I will remember him forever, and that his blood will wipe out the blood of a slave.”

  Marcus smiled darkly at the conclusion of his letter, sanded the ink, then sealed the letter with the ring his grandfather had bequeathed to him and which bore the seal of the Tullii.

  Julius sat at his table in his own magnificent house with a number of his friends. On the cloth of silver which covered the table lay the sparkling ring which Marcus had sent him. Julius looked slowly at the faces of the men who surrounded him, and who had partaken of his fine dinner.

  “I have told you all,” said Julius, fixing his black eyes on each man in turn, “that Cicero is under my protection. One of you has disdained my requests and has flouted my friendship. You, Catilina? You, Crassus? You, Piso? You, Curius? You? You? You? You? You, Pompey?”

  Each in turn stared at Julius with affront or scorn, and shook his head.

  “The Chick-pea is of no importance,” said Catilina, contemptuously.

  “Nonsense,” said Julius. “Once you protested to me, Lucius, that he should die, that he is dangerous. Have you changed your opinion?”

  “Yes,” said Catilina, with a beautiful smile. “You convinced me, Caesar.”

  Julius smiled in return. “I have observed that none of you is wearing his ring tonight. Have you consulted each other, and have you decided that none must wear it until the guilty one has had another made?”

  “Be sensible,” said the fair-haired Piso. “We have been with you often in the last weeks. If one or two of us were absent in Greece, his absence would have been noted.”

  But Julius said, “I have observed, Curius, that you are not in the best of health, that your face is drawn and pale, that you wince if you
move suddenly. Were you wounded by Quintus, that brave soldier?”

  Curius looked at him heavily, his dark and surly features cold with anger. “I was wounded in a duel between myself and the husband of the lady I love.”

  “I did not see you for three weeks, Curius.”

  “I was recovering from my wounds.”

  “And the husband of the lady—he survived? I have heard of no noble death.”

  “He is recovering.”

  “What! He permitted you to live? Do Romans not fight to the death any longer?”

  “We thought him dead. Unhappily, he was only sorely wounded. When I left him, I thought I had killed him.”

  “Who is the gentleman, Curius?”

  “Oh, shall we be party to the humiliation of a Roman?” asked Catilina. “Let the man recover in peace with his honor still intact.” Catilina put his hand affectionately on the shoulder of Curius. “I trust you see the lady no more, my friend.”

  “No woman is worth a duel,” said Curius, grinning darkly.

  Julius was not amused. He stared at Curius. “Have you ever known Quintus Tullius Cicero?”

  “No, we have never encountered each other.”

  “Then, if he saw your face he would not have known it.”