A Pillar of Iron

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Are you trying to offend me, Marcus, your guest, your friend whom you have not seen for two years? Or do your own sad meditations inspire your bitter satire?”

  “Forgive me!” cried Marcus.

  Julius touched his hand quickly. His eyes danced. “I am not ‘selling’ my daughter to Pompey, in spite of your allusion. He is old enough to be her father, God knows, but such marriages are common enough in Rome. The girl is agreeable, for she is sensible, and more mature than her years. And I have a discriminating appetite for all things, unlike Erisichthon.”

  But the obscure misery with which Marcus was beset made him oblivious again to courtesy, he who had once said that a discourteous man was a barbarian. He said, his pale face flashing as if the shadow of lighted glass had passed over it, “Before you left for Spain, Crassus and Pompey deprived the Senate of much of its debilitated power. It is more than rumor, Julius, that you were influential in this, and that you urged Crassus to restore power to the Equestrian Order—so that they now control the courts. Yet, to maintain the lie that Crassus really loved the man in the street you carried a bust of your uncle, the old murderer, Marius, in a populares procession that shouted acclamations for Crassus! Did I not see you in that very procession, before you left for Spain? How do you explain this hypocrisy?”

  Julius was only amused. “Call it, if you will, your own urge to compromise. The Equestrian Order is not only rich; it is intellectual and learned in law. Do you think it impossible for such as the Equestrians to have no sympathy for the populace? On the contrary! Only the rich and powerful have solicitude for the people. The champions who rise from the populace are oppressors, for they know the populace only too well. But the rich and the powerful have illusions about their virtue and often believe that the voice of the people is the voice of God. Surely, were you on trial you should prefer Equestrians to judge you rather than the flea-bitten mob?”

  “I should prefer honest men.”

  “You will not find them on the streets and in the noxious alleys.”

  Marcus moved restlessly. He said, “You are not only hypocritical, Julius, but you appear to me inconsistent.”

  “You should not deride inconsistency. What! Did you not help prosecute Gaius Verres because of his extortion in Sicily, and then on the other hand did you not defend Marcus Fonteius on the identical charge of extortion in Gaul?”

  Marcus caught himself before he could say, “But then, I love Sicily, and I do not love Gaul.” Watching him with amusement, Julius said, “No politician, dear Marcus, can remain free from corruption, for it is the business of politics to deal with the people, and the people inevitably corrupt. Only in the realm of the abstract can man remain good—that is, if he wishes to survive.”

  “I do not compromise on principle,” Marcus repeated with stubbornness.

  “No? Then how do you explain Verres and Fonteius?”

  “You would not understand my explanation.”

  Julius laughed loudly and merrily. “The aphorism of the politician! Come, Marcus, you did not always lack humor. I pity you: an honorable man who in some manner became a politician. Why did you enter politics?”

  “So that I could help delay the inevitable despotism that will surely engulf Rome, and to insure that some law survives.”

  “You are a good man, Marcus. Your virtue is acclaimed in Rome. But still, I pity you. There will be a day when you will not compromise, and that day will see your end. I hope I do not witness it, for I should grieve mortally.”

  Marcus blurted without his will and not knowing why he did so, “Do not grieve! You will die before me!”

  He was horrified. But Julius’ face had changed superstitiously, and he was staring at Marcus. Julius whispered, “Why do you say that, you who are older?”

  “Forgive me,” said Marcus, with overwhelming contrition. “I have been unpardonably rude.”

  But Julius thoughtfully refilled his goblet and then drank of it slowly.

  “I have had many dreams,” he said, “and I have seen myself dying, flowing with my own blood. But who should wish to assassinate me, and why? You have a reputation as an augur.”

  “That is truly superstition. I am no augur, and it comes to me now that I am very stupid or I should not have insulted you. I can only say that I have been depressed lately.” Marcus put his hand on his old friend’s arm with a pleading gesture. Julius immediately covered that hand with his own fingers, and pressed it.

  It was at that moment that Terentia appeared, apparently unaware that her husband had a guest, and beside her walked the little Tullia, the heart of hearts to her father. Terentia started prettily at the sight of Julius, and cast down her eyes modestly. Her lashes swept her cheek becomingly, but this did not detract from the hard resolution of her mouth and the stoniness of her chin, both of which had increased during the past years. Marcus surveyed her with irritation, but Julius rose and kissed her hand with a flourish.

  “I did not know that you had returned, Julius,” said Terentia, in her deceptively mild voice and displaying a matronly confusion which further irritated Marcus. “Had I known my husband had a guest I should not have intruded. Pardon me; I must return to the house.” But she stood her ground and now her shining brown eyes scrutinized Julius not only with curiosity but with avidity and excitement.

  “Do not deprive us of your lovely presence,” said Julius. “I was about to depart.”

  Terentia gave Marcus an impatient glance, and when he did not speak she said, “But surely you will dine with—with my husband. This household will be honored.”

  Julius looked grave, and looked at Marcus through the corner of his eye.

  “I am dining with the noble Crassus, Terentia.”

  Terentia, forgetting that she was a retiring “old” Roman, and despising Marcus for his obdurate silence, said immediately, “But surely, tomorrow! You have been absent so long.”

  Marcus, the almost always courteous, obstinately kept silent, and Julius had trouble restraining his mirth. Julius said, “I thank you, Terentia. It is I who am honored, for who does not acclaim the great Cicero and consider himself flattered at an invitation from him?”

  At that moment Terentia was not only impatient with her husband but actually hated him for his silence and his set mouth. Julius was powerful; Julius could advance the career of her husband. Yet, he sat there like a lump of lard and said nothing. It was an affront to herself. He always availed himself of an opportunity to humiliate her, she thought with burning resentment. Her breast heaved under the brown linen which covered her now very ample breast.

  Marcus said at last, “I am entertaining lawyers tomorrow, and Julius finds law dull.”

  But Julius cried with vivacity, “No! I love lawyers! I shall bask in their wisdom.” Then he had pity on his friend and turned his attention on young Tullia. He touched her cheek with a kind and thin brown hand. “What is this? Is it not a beauty we have among us? She will ravish Rome.”

  The girl dimpled and gazed at Julius with her father’s eyes, blue one moment, gray the next, and then clear amber. She curtsied politely. She was only seven years old but she had her father’s intelligence and his perceptiveness. Her curling brown hair caught gold from the sun. As a well-bred child she did not speak. She stood patiently beside Terentia.

  Terentia clasped her hands and fastened a limpid gaze on Julius.

  “How we sorrowed with you, Julius, when Cornelia died!”

  “He is about to console himself,” said Marcus.

  Julius decided that this was a tactful moment to depart. He kissed Terentia’s hand again, embraced Marcus as he still sat, patted Tullia’s head, and left in a swirl of cloak and perfume. The sunset garden appeared to be less shining when he had gone. Terentia said to her daughter in a pent voice, “Leave us, Tullia.” The little girl kissed her father’s cheek then ran toward the house. Marcus stared at the ground. Terentia folded her muscular arms on her breast and contemplated him with red-faced bitterness.

 
“Your rudeness is unpardonable,” she said harshly.

  “I have no excuse, Terentia. Julius annoys me.”

  “I have noticed that many things annoy you lately. You rarely speak to your father. You rarely condescend to speak to me. Your conversation, which is very infrequent, appears to confine itself to Tullia and your mother. I have heard you in brutal controversy with eminent lawyers and judges, when they dined in this house. Once you were a paragon of discretion and restraint. Now your voice is abrupt, and you do not control yourself in the presence of those who could advance your career.”

  “So you have said many times.”

  “It is always the truth. Do you think I am content with your status as of this day? No! I expect more of you. I am of a great house, and you have a duty to your family. You should be Praetor of the city, at the very least. Crassus has not even named you Magnus.”

  “The title lost its meaning when Pompey was named it.” Marcus was ashamed of himself for his irritability and his growing aversion for his wife. He loathed ambitious women, of whom Rome now had too many. His sadness and his nervousness overwhelmed him again. “Give me peace,” he said.

  “I owe it to my ancestors to see that my husband does not diminish them.”

  Marcus stood up suddenly. “To Hades with your ancestors!” he exclaimed. His pale face was crimson. His hands clenched at his sides. Terentia, all at once, embodied what he most despised, what he most dreaded.

  Terentia stepped back, truly aghast and white. “Their manes will imprecate you, Marcus!”

  “Let it be. More tangible creatures than your ancestors’ manes imprecate me. I have told you many times that I seek no man’s favor. I particularly do not seek Caesar’s favor, for he is a liar and a hypocrite, and he is exigent.”

  “You have no care for your own future! Therefore, it is all left to me.”

  “Refrain,” said Marcus. “I beg of you, refrain.”

  “I shall not refrain!” cried Terentia with passion.

  Marcus sat down heavily, the color leaving his face. Terentia breathed loudly. The song of the birds grew more insistent. The fragrant wind rose to sound and the leaves of the trees spoke in answer. Terentia considered her husband, and his mute face and dropped eyelids. She considered many things. Men were men. She said accusingly, “Have you a mistress?”

  “Yes,” said Marcus. “Too many to count, too many to be named. I am bankrupt for paying for their favors.”

  His satirical voice angered Terentia.

  “Nevertheless, you love another woman,” she said, but not believing it.

  Slowly, painfully, Marcus lifted his eyelids and looked at her fully.

  “That is true,” he said, and stood up and went toward his house. Terentia gazed after him and suddenly put her clenched hand against her lips. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Marcus was alone on the ancestral island in the autumn, as he had desired it. He ate, slept deeply, swam in the murmurous waters, walked in the forests, inspected his herds of sheep, goats, and cattle, talked desultorily with the slaves, read, contemplated, wrote on his next book of essays.

  Nothing comforted him, nothing eased him, nothing gave him satisfaction.

  I am growing old, he thought. There is a darkness in my mind which nothing lifts, nothing assuages. I want nothing, and surely that is the prelude to death. There is no promise in my life which I can discern. I am defeated; I am lost. The multitude of letters which came to him from Rome remained unopened, the seals intact. He looked in his mirror and did not see therein a man with vital and glistening eyes and browned cheeks and ruddy lips, the result of his sojourn on the island. He saw a wan and aging man. For Livia haunted the island as she had not haunted it for many years.

  She was alive as no woman had ever been alive for him. He heard her eerie song in the trees, caught the flutter of her veil and palla between the dark trunks in the forest, heard her voice in the river. Sometimes he could not bear his sorrow, despite all the years in which Livia had rested in her grave. He pursued her bright shadow; sometimes the slaves heard his desperate calling. I am becoming mad, he would say to himself, as he ran like a youth through the dim woods looking for Livia. Sometimes he clasped a young tree in his arms, like Apollo, and pressed his face against the living bark and wept. He felt he was embracing Livia, who, like a nymph, had fled from him and had changed into a sapling. A mysterious agony was upon him, as if he had been newly bereaved.

  It is for myself that I grieve, he thought once with sudden clarity. It is for my youth that I grieve, my hopes and my dreams, my phantom of lying promise, the wreathed years when I believed that life was of significance. How do other men bear this burden? How did my grandfather endure, and Scaevola, and Archias, and all the others of my beloved whose shades haunt the halls of my past? How could they have lived out the years of their lives? What sustained them? There is nothing but empty vessels on my table and the ewer of my wine is full of dried dregs. Why had they never said, “You are eager and thirsty, and you will be deprived and you will not want to drink again?”

  “Livia!” he called to the woods. He stood on the bridge with Livia where he had stood so long ago, and he saw the white warm curve of her arm near his, and the blazing blue of her eyes as they looked into his own. He put his head down on the stony balustrade.

  He thought of his father, whom he had abandoned in impatience. Had Tullius ever dreamed, been deprived, tilted a goblet which contained nothing? He stood in Tullius’ library and looked at the silent books, then opened them as if searching for a message. He found one, and it filled him with renewed despair, for Tullius had written in a margin: “To dream is to live. To awaken is to die.”

  His physician in Arpinum said to him, “When men reach your age, and are neither young nor old, they question themselves and their lives. They suffer. But it will pass. I am seventy years old, and I tell you that this will pass.”

  Marcus did not believe him. “I want nothing,” he said. The physician smiled. “There is God,” said the physician. “There is eternity.”

  “To what, then, can a man be reduced!” exclaimed Marcus. “If there is nothing but those, how passionless is life!” The physician smiled again.

  Finally he forced himself to read the many letters which had come to him.

  Terentia had written him a bitter letter. Lucius Sergius Catilina had been appointed Praetor of Rome by Crassus. “This was withheld from you, my dear husband,” she wrote. “Now the murderer of my sister, her seducer, occupies a great position. Had you been present this should never have come to pass.”

  A mighty wave of rage and passion and hate rolled over Marcus, and he forgot that he would never feel emotion again. He forgot that his life had ended, and had no meaning any longer. He forgot that existence had been reduced to sterility, and that there was nothing for which a man could in all honesty fight, and give his life.

  He left the next morning for Rome. It seemed to him that Livia rode beside him and spurred him on, her veil blowing in his face.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Crassus, the man with the huge fat body and the narrow face and head, regarded Marcus, coldly, and Julius smiled to himself and Pompey gazed at his jeweled hands.

  “I confess,” said Crassus, “that I do not understand your vehemence, Cicero. You are incoherent, and that does not become a lawyer. What is it to you that Catilina is Prateor?”

  Marcus said, his face deeply flushed with emotion, “It is as if a leopard were appointed guardian of sheep. The man, by nature, is a disaster! Surely, I do not have to tell you what he is! He is a friend and patron of the most despicable elements of Rome, which includes notorious criminals. His natural climate is evil. There is nothing in his nature and his character which make him worthy of so high and potent a position. He is not a lawyer; he has never been a magistrate. He is licentious and corrupt, idle and vicious. Are these now qualifications for Praetor? If so, then Rome is truly degraded.”

  He had implored and had obtained an a
udience with Crassus in the latter’s magnificent house. He had refused refreshments and wine. He stood before Crassus’ carved ivory and ebony table, sometimes striking it with his fist, as the others imperturbably dined and drank. They listened to him with courtesy, though Crassus, who had always feared and hated and suspected him, could not conceal the evil flash of his gray eyes when they touched the younger man.

  He said, “Catilina is much loved. This has pleased many people, that he is Praetor.”

  “Whom has it pleased?”

  Julius said with a grave countenance, “Democracy, my dear Marcus, which grants to all free men the same opportunity. Is this not what you have always advocated? Or, are you now turning on your heel and declaring that a man’s competency should be judged only by his personal eccentricities or his political adherences?”

  “A man’s personal conduct cannot be separated from his public; they are the two aspects of the same coin.”

  “Calm yourself,” said Pompey. “Of what crimes has Catilina been convicted? None. Of what does his ill-fame consist? Adulterer? If all men who were adulterers were denied public office then all offices would be empty and we should have chaos. A man can deceive his wife but remain resolutely loyal to his country. A man can be decadent and depraved in his private life—and are we not all subjects to our secret vices?—and yet be upright in public office, and virtuous. A man’s household may be recklessly extravagant, yet I have observed that such men are frugal in government. The reverse is also true: the prim man can be a libertine with the people’s freedom; the man who counts his private treasure and spends none of it can throw away the people’s treasury with both hands for votes.”

  This was a long speech from the usually taciturn and watchful Pompey. Marcus looked into his calm light eyes and saw there only tolerance and liking, and even now he could wonder why Pompey felt friendliness toward him who had given no friendliness in return.