A Pillar of Iron

by Taylor Caldwell

  In short, Cicero reflected with dismay and returning apprehension, nothing had changed in Rome. His life, in the future, would indeed be but a repetition of what he had known too many years. Freedom had gone forever, under the iron Triumvirate, whose ambitions grew day by day. Pompey had been given enormous and unprecedented military power.

  Cicero wrote to Atticus, and his letter was full of melancholy. As for the situation in Rome, he wrote, “it is, for a state of prosperity, slippery; for a state of adversity, good.” He added, with gloom, “It is the national climate of a democracy.”

  *From a letter to Lentulus.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  “Though the Greeks declare that war is one of the arts,” wrote Cicero to Caesar, “and that the greatest game of all is man hunting man—I note that it is only man who hunts and murders his own species—I have discovered that governments resort to war to silence internal discontent and unite a nation against a ‘foe,’ or to bring a false prosperity to the State when its finances are declining and corruption has wholly seized the politicians. War is particularly loved of tyrants; it diverts a people from just complaint against them. It also enhances the powers of tyrants, for then in a state of emergency, as they call it, they can impose even more onerous restrictions upon liberty. “Yet,” he added sadly, “young men appear to love war and find even more gratification of their most bestial instincts in it than in the arms of women. There is a fatal fault in human nature, a primal core of evil.”

  Julius Caesar, before the return of Cicero from exile, had been appointed by Crassus, as governor of Cisalpine Gaul, Transalpine Gaul, and Illyricum, all excellent sources for loot. He was now pursuing, with fine enthusiasm, the Gallic Wars, with young Mark Antony as his first officer. All this splendid martial activity did not interfere with his membership in the Triumvirate. It was evident that he intended to make a more heroic reputation as a soldier than Pompey the Magnus, for not only was Caesar a general in the most ardent of Roman fashions but he was a shrewd administrator of Roman civil life also. He frequently returned to Rome to be certain that no one was too actively undermining his political position and to keep a subtle eye on his natural enemies which he knew included both Crassus and Pompey. He did not find this too arduous, for with his natural gift for intrigue he combined a marvelous physical constitution despite his predilection for epilepsy—which he used to advantage also.

  Julius thought Cicero’s letter concerning war and man’s innate evil very amusing. “My dear Marcus,” he wrote, “you will forever remain the naïve and virtuous man, despite all your experiences. What unhappiness must be yours! that you attempt to reconcile your conceptions of virtue with what your intelligence tells you about humanity! It is like an attempt to mate fire and water. What you know, and what you hope, are the fatal and irreconcilable flaw in your temperament, and men like you are doomed to sorrow and despair, for you refuse to accept the reality that most men regard the world as their particular domain and all the inhabitants therein their prey; you prefer to believe that by taking thought men can be better and nobler than their nature has ordained! Better to accept what man is than to have wild dreams that he may become like the gods! You can only confuse mankind with your ideals. I satisfy men, for I know what they are and do not demand more than is possible.”

  Cicero admitted to himself that there was some truth in what Julius had written, and so he did not reply to the letter. How can a man live if he accepts the evil in man with amusement and a shrug, and does not try to eradicate it?

  He had begun his campaign for the complete restoration of his property. He appealed to the College of Pontifices (Pontiffs), who had the responsibility concerning religion. The deft Clodius had posed a question of them when he had erected a Temple to Liberty on the site of Cicero’s house on the Palatine Hill. To destroy the temple and return the land to Cicero had elements of blasphemy in it. However, there was also a question of law. So the Pontiffs wrote their decision: “If neither by a command of free burghers in a lawful assembly (populi jussu) nor by a plebicite, he who avers that he dedicated the site to religious uses had specific authority, we are of the opinion that that part of the site which has been so dedicated may, without any violation of religion, be returned to Marcus Tullius Cicero, considering, too, that malice and enmity had deprived him of his property in the first place.”

  But Clodius, that sleepless enemy, was not without resources. Though he did not possess the profound understanding of humanity that Julius Caesar possessed, he had his own comprehension of it and its vagaries, prejudices, and capriciousness. Cicero soon found that he was again losing favor with the people, and though intellectually aware of the caprices of his fellowmen he still indefatigably believed they could often be moved to justice and reason. So he was astonished that when Clodius induced his brother Appius, the Praetor, to declare that the Pontiffs had ruled in his, Clodius’, favor, but that Cicero, disdaining the College of Pontiffs and manifesting a contempt for religion, was going to take the site of his house “by force,” a vast segment of the people believed Clodius with no question at all! The Senate had moved to carry out the dictum of the Pontiffs. (In the meantime Clodius had also managed to blame the increasing famine in grain on Cicero, on the grounds that so huge had been the number of those following him from the countryside on his return from exile, that the famine had been aggravated.)

  Then matters came to standstill. Many of the tribunes, the representatives of the people, loved Clodius. They vetoed the return of the site of Cicero’s house on the grounds that it was now sacred soil. The cynical people, who did not truly believe in the gods, were nevertheless vociferous in their defense of “sanctity.” But Cicero resolutely reminded them of the decision of the College of Pontiffs, who were the guardians of religion. However, the people preferred controversy and the frustration of a great man they had only recently acclaimed and called “hero, and savior of Rome.” Thus they manifested the innate human vice of malice and envy. Goaded by Cicero, the guilty Senate decided, after a sluggish delay, to obey the Pontiffs. They rallied the magistrates, who depended on their favors, and the magistrates virtuously upheld the Pontiffs and the Senate—who, after all, were the most powerful in Rome—and said that full restoration must be made to Cicero who had been “unlawfully deprived of his property.” The Senate also declared that anyone who opposed their decision, and the “reverent decision of the Pontiffs,” would be held liable. The Consuls therefore let out contracts for the demolition of the Temple to Liberty, and for the rebuilding of Cicero’s house. They also fixed a sum of the value of Cicero’s various villas which had also been destroyed, but this was prudently far less than the actual worth.

  But Clodius was not subdued by all this authority, for he had great power with the people and his own bands of the trained lawless in his pay. When the first wet snow of early winter fell, he commanded his ruffians to destroy what so far had been rebuilt of Cicero’s house on the Palatine. What could not be dismantled was fired. In open daylight, when Cicero was going down from the Capitol on the Via Scara, Clodius, in person, attacked him with his cutthroats. Fortunately, Cicero was attended by a large body of the police, who, themselves, were assaulted with stones, weapons of all sorts, daggers and spears by Clodius’ rabble. Titus Milo, the friend of Cicero, protested this “outrage against law and order on the part of Publius Clodius” before the Senate. As a consequence, Milo’s house was burned to the ground. His friends had killed many of Clodius’ men during the conflagration.

  Cicero went to the villa of his dear old friend, Julius Caesar, who received him with his customary ebullience.

  “Blessed is this house that it receives you!” Julius exclaimed, embracing him. “You did not see fit to honor it again after your return from exile. You do not even know my beloved wife, Calpurnia, whose father was a Consul. I will summon her at once,” and he clapped his hands for a slave.

  “I did not come to converse with women,” said Marcus with a grim smile.

  �
��Ah, you old Romans! Calpurnia is of a new generation.” Julius poured wine for his friend and seemed delighted at his presence. “My wife is conversant with politics and is also a seer. She claims this, herself.”

  Cicero studied his host. The mobile and antic face was the same, but now Cicero noted the hard lines that ran from nose to mouth, as if gouged out. He also remembered the ancient story of creation, that men were mild and good before the age of iron, which had corrupted them, and the age of gold which followed, more greatly corrupting them. War and greed. These were the monster crimes of humanity. Julius, during this meditation by Cicero, had been gayly prattling of things of no consequence, and beaming with pleasure on his friend. He suddenly became aware of Cicero’s sombre expression. He said, “What troubles you, best of all friends?”

  “You,” said Cicero. But then Calpurnia entered, and Marcus rose courteously to greet her, and kissed her hands. She was a young woman, tall and very thin in the purple which both she and her husband affected, embroidered with gold Grecian keys. Her long straight hair was black, and she had an angular face of a peculiar whiteness, like new bone, stark and intense. Her large black eyes burned like ignited coal; she had a long thin neck graced by a single coil of gold. Her red mouth was a scarlet thread in her pallid face and writhed and trembled constantly. The first impression was of ugliness; the next, of strange and unearthly beauty, somewhat frightening and forbidding. She gazed almost fiercely into Cicero’s eyes, and her face changed as if she were about to burst into tears. In silence, she seated herself with dignity, and waited.

  “My dear Calpurnia,” said Julius, “is my right hand. I trust her implicitly.”

  Cicero came to the point at once, and bluntly. “You know of Clodius and what he has been attempting against me. You and Pompey and Crassus have inflicted tyranny on Rome. No matter. The people deserve you. When men give up their freedom willingly in the name of security, they soon lose even that degraded security. I do not denounce you. I denounce the people of Rome who made the Triumvirate possible. Now, I will speak of Clodius and his marauders and murderers and trained rioters. You, the Triumvirate, could stop him at once if you desired, and you could outlaw his constant demonstrations in the very daylight streets of Rome, and could silence his followers’ screams and shouts in our very temples and before our government buildings and our Senate. You do not choose to halt him. You do not choose to order our police to arrest and imprison him and his followers for disorder and lawlessness. Do not explain! I know why.

  “Catilina was one of you. When you lost control of him and when you could no longer trust him to do your work, you used me to destroy him. Now you have Clodius. I know why you suffer him. He will create so much disorder through insurrections and riots in the streets, that the Triumvirate, in the name of law and order, will declare an emergency and then will seize total power in Rome. The Senate and the tribunes, the representatives of the people, will be declared impotent to ‘deal with the situation.’ Pompey, with his legions, will move upon Rome, creating a worse military climate than even Sulla brought upon the city.”

  “Plots again?” said Julius with amusement. “You were always a victim of your own imagination.”

  But Cicero’s eyes were suddenly drawn to Calpurnia. She sat easily enough in her ivory chair but her eyes were wide and glittering and she was breathing as if with terror. Cicero said, “Lady, do you wish to speak?”

  “Yes!” she cried, and her voice shook with anguish. “I have warned Julius. He is pursuing a dangerous course. It will end only with his murder!”

  Julius’ laugh was gay. “I swear that the two of you are the most dismal of augurs!” he exclaimed. “The Triumvirate wishes only peace and prosperity for Rome, and tranquillity among the nations! Let Clodius riot and shout with his gangs in the street. Are not we Italians always vociferous? It means nothing. They are young men who enjoy their own noise and take pleasure in it—”

  “They destroyed my house.”

  “Which is being rebuilt. I deplore violence. But is it not wiser to permit demonstrations on the streets and screams and runnings and shouts of impossible demands, than to suppress them and drive them underground where they will truly be dangerous? Let Italians waste their enormous vitality in noise. They adore it. After they have shrieked themselves hoarse they return to their homes in high good humor.”

  “After burning houses, stoning the Senate, attacking harmless men, killing them, and defying the police.”

  Julius shrugged. “These are not the harsh old days, Marcus, when every sort of dissent was quickly suppressed. These are the days of free demonstration.”

  “Such as uncontrolled riot and murder.”

  “You make too much of it,” said Julius. “I deplore the excess of enthusiasm in the mobs, and Clodius has been reprimanded.”

  “And secretly encouraged,” said Cicero.

  “Beware!” cried Calpurnia in a loud voice, and addressing her husband. “I have dreamed of you, Julius, dying of many wounds!” Her distress mounted. She wrung her hands and appealed to Cicero. “I love my husband. Dissuade him from the course he has taken, I beg of you! You are his friend, from his childhood. I plead with him in vain. Add your voice to mine, Marcus Tullius Cicero.”

  “I have talked with him in this fashion for years,” said Cicero, pitying her. “He has never listened. I, too, have had a vision of him as you have had. But I fear for Rome more.”

  Calpurnia did not understand him. She sat in silence now and the tears ran down her pallid cheeks.

  “Do you desire to be king of Rome?” asked Cicero with overwhelming bitterness. “What of Pompey? And Crassus? Will they yield to you?”

  Julius was more amused than ever, though he reached for his wife’s thin hand and held it and patted it. “We are a Republic, not an empire, Marcus,” he said.

  Cicero shook his head. “We are no longer a Republic, Julius, and that you know. You and your friends were the executioners of our Republic, which was the wonder of the world, and its admiration. Would you be emperor, Julius, and is that why you are using and encouraging Clodius?”

  When Julius did not reply Cicero rose and began to pace up and down the large marble hall in agitation. “Long ago was this age prophesied by the Sybils, whom once I despised. They prophesied too that one day man would harness the sun itself and burn this world to ashes, and the mountains and the seas and the valleys and the meadows with it. That prophesy is embedded in our religion, and in the religion of the Jews and the Egyptians, and the Chaldeans and the Greeks. You do not possess the weapons for so enormous a destruction, Julius. Whether or not it is symbolic I do not know. Nevertheless, it will come.

  “Julius, you are like Phaethon, who insisted on borrowing the chariot of his father, Phoebus, the sun god, for one day. So great, then, was the conflagration that Jove smote Phaethon and hurled him into the sea, to save the world. Whether you are the one prophesied by the Sybils, or another in the ages to come, I do not profess to interpret. But your end is sure if you pursue your present course. There still live Romans who love the forms of the Republic, if they no longer exist. They still love freedom. Move to take the crown, Julius, and you will surely die.”

  Then Julius rose and he was no longer laughing. He caught the arm of the pacing Cicero and held him strongly and looked into his face. He said, with great quietness, “You are not truly a politician, Marcus. Have you not learned through suffering and exile? Beware that a worse fate does not overtake you. Retire. Write. Be done with meddling with matters that do not concern you. You are not young; your hair is almost white. Let your final days be serene. Resume your law. Be tranquil. I give you this advice because I love you.”

  Cicero flung off his arm. “In short, let my country die without a word from me, without a protest!”

  “You would attempt to halt the tide of history, which is inexorable?”

  But Cicero did not answer him. He lifted and kissed the hand of the weeping Calpurnia, and then departed.

&n
bsp; After the Saturnalia Cicero took possession of his rebuilt house on the Palatine. It was not half so grand as his former house, nor was it filled with the treasures of years. Terentia was dissatisfied. She wandered through the spacious rooms, never once conceding that this view was pleasant or that atrium dignified; she complained in a new tone she had recently acquired: condescending and discontented, as if she deserved better of the world than had been granted her by everyone, and mainly her husband. She swayed her heavy body as she walked slowly through the house, and pettishly used the back of her hand to flow out her stola in a movement at once impatient and indifferent. She was a querulous queen whose subjects had disappointed her.

  But she could not discompose Cicero as once she did. Discreet inquiries revealed the extent of her private fortune; Cicero recalled that she had sent him nothing in his exile, though Quintus, his brother, had frequently gifted him with solid purses, and Atticus, his editor and publisher, had lent him large sums of money and then had declared that royalties had covered the amount—which Cicero now did not believe in the least. Cicero had had to sell two of his favorite villas to cover debts and to return Quintus’ money over his protests. Tullia’s husband, though of a great house, had died impecunious with not even Tullia’s dowry restored. Young Marcus had to be educated and sums set aside for his personal use when he reached manhood. Two destroyed villas had to be rebuilt; the island at Arpinum had been neglected during Cicero’s exile and now new buildings had to be supplied for the overseer and the servants. The sesterce was not now worth what it had been worth several years ago, and prices were all excessive. The Senate, of course, though virtuously voting for the “full return” of Cicero’s property and his fortune, had set their own estimations. “I am no longer rich,” he wrote to Atticus. “In my hopeless attempts to save my country I neglected my investments and my law before my exile. Now that the winter of my age is whitening beyond my autumn colors, I am filled with anxiety. I have been very poor in my life; I do not recall poverty with pleasure, and let those who have never suffered it say smugly that it has its own delights! It is a lie. I fear poverty almost as much as I fear death; it is as degrading. So now I must study investments again, and rediscover the law—that law so mangled over the past years!”