A Pillar of Iron

by Taylor Caldwell

  Julius embraced him. “In all Rome I trust only you,” he said.

  Greatly moved, Cicero cried with sudden passion, “Trust me, then! What is in your mind, Julius, I see as a fiery cloud destroying Rome! Retreat, have mercy, refrain!”

  Julius’ face, so marked over the years with lines of mirth, became darkly sober. He said in a quiet voice, “I can no more retreat than can you, Marcus. A man’s character is his destiny. Our lives are bound up together, Marcus, for our natures have drawn us together. So dissimilar, we yet are like the Gemini.”

  Cicero was not yet old, but he felt old, old in his tired body, old in his mind. He thought of the island with longing, but Rome was his city. He could not be content for long in either. He saw serene contemporaries and envied them, and then was immediately horrified by them. He loathed the turbulence and lawlessness of a city once ruled by law and republican virtues, yet he must gaze at it like one fascinated and could not turn away. He had seen the death of liberty and could not flee from the sight. He read books and wrote them, but they did not satisfy him. He preferred thought to contentment, and fled the amiable conversation of his friends, and their tables, weary of tales of gambling, sports, entertainments, gossip, and scandal. Under its sparkling nothingness ran the dark and furious waters of existence and the man who did not wet his feet in them could be counted as a man who had never truly lived. He, Cicero, preferred to drown in the torrent than to spend the rest of his life under a fruity tree and dream sweet dreams without reality. Julius had accused him of “meddling.” But all life was meddling in fierce currents. He who ate the pomegranates of Hades before he had crossed the Styx deserved nothing but dishonor and the death of his memory in the minds of men.

  One day he went to the Forum and the Basilica of Justice to plead a case. It was a warm day in spring, as fresh as a rose and some of the weariness left him in the clear and ardent sunshine. A lady in a litter of crimson silk embroidered with gold accosted him, and he saw she was the sister of Julius, Julia, a pretty woman with a coquettish manner and Julius’ glittering black hair and lively eyes. Beside her sat a young boy, lolling on the cushions, as fair as she was dark. His hair was yellow and curling; his eyes as blue as lakes. Julia gave Cicero her hand and he kissed it and she admired him with her restless glance.

  “You know my grandson, Octavius, do you not?” she asked, indicating the indifferent boy at her side. The youth had large features, almost classical, and cold as marble. He regarded Cicero with respect but also without much interest. Cicero was always partial to youth; the boy was almost the age of young Marcus, and so Cicero’s worn face smiled with a shadow of its old amiability and charm. Octavius’ white tunic was bordered with the purple of preadolescence. His attitude, however, was that of a king and suddenly the blue eyes were the eyes of a calculating and very intelligent predatory lion, and very aware. Seeing this strange metamorphosis, as the boy’s gaze dwelt on him, Cicero felt a contraction of his heart as if he had observed an omen of mighty portent. Man and youth stared at each other in silence.

  “Julius,” said Julia, “believes Octavius will become a famous soldier. He is already conversant with the arts of war, and is dexterous with the sword.”

  “I pray,” said Cicero, “that he will be a noble Roman.”

  At this, Octavius’ face changed again. He did not smile, but he gave the impression of smiling, and it was not a youthful grimace but that of an alert man, and very remote. It was also haughty, and he glanced at his grandmother as if her fatuous pride irritated him. He did not speak again. Julia made another sprightly remark, inquired of Terentia and Tullia, and her litter was borne away. Cicero forgot his mission. He gazed after the litter and there was an icy sensation in his heart.

  They are born in every generation, thought Cicero, as he went his despondent way, and in each generation we must contend with them. Why should we not let them have their way and devour the weak? Let them eat of the sheep and rule them and destroy them! Let us be silent, those of us who believe that the weak also have a right to live and live peacefully under law! The weak only gather with the wolves to drag us down with their teeth and condemn us with their mouths.

  The whole trouble lay in the fact that just men, and good, could not be cynical, and could not shut their ears to the cries of the foolish sheep who had meekly allowed themselves to be penned and had then uttered cries of anguish when they saw the man with the knife.

  Suddenly Cicero remembered the last letter from Noë ben Joel, who had quoted Jeremias to him again: “If I say, ‘I will not make mention of God, nor speak any more in His Name—then there is in my heart as it were a raging fire, shut up in my bones, and I am weary with holding it in.’”

  No, thought Cicero, I cannot hold it in, even if I die for it. But he was very tired.

  “When the irresponsible enthusiastically riot and make demonstrations in the streets against all reason and all law,” Titus Milo told Cicero, “then respectable men must oppose them. Clodius gives them mindless slogans, and they repeat them, believing that in mere utterance, and the violence accompanying them, they will be heaped with vague benefits and riches—at the expense of those Clodius has designated as their enemies.”

  “But who rules Clodius and his furious mobs?” asked Cicero. “Caesar, for his own purposes. Do what you can, Titus. You have resolute men who respect you.”

  “We must hold Caesar at bay as long as possible,” said young Titus, with a dark face. “Do you know what Pompey has told me? That Caesar is now rushing toward a new dictatorship, with himself as sole power in Rome. Caesar is a soldier, but affects to fear militarism. Have you not heard of the graffiti on the walls of Rome? ‘Down with Pompey!’”

  Milo was a candidate for Consul, Clodius for the Praetor-ship. Milo conducted his campaign with the words, “Romans need no soldier to control them. Neither do they wish a despot.” Clodius used the slogans: “Caesar and Clodius for the People of Rome, and democracy! Free corn for the needy and deserving! Freedom from trial by the Censors unless confronted by accusers open to question! Down with secret testimonies!”

  One day on the Appian Way Milo’s men were assaulted by the rabble of Clodius and during the ensuing and disordered battle Clodius was slain. The lawabiding rejoiced; the rabble were infuriated. So perish tyrants and insurrectionists, thought Cicero. But he was horrified and despondent that such violence had been necessary, and that Clodius had not been able, under the circumstances he had created himself, to be brought to trial. The supine Senate and even the tribunes of the people had been silent before his crimes, and thus were responsible for his death on the famous Way. As usual, the people disputed among themselves as to the right or wrong of Clodius’ death, and, as usual, they forgot it all within a few days. The Great Games were approaching, and there was wild betting on the newest gladiators, wrestlers, pugilists, discus throwers, horse and chariot races, spear-hurlers, runners, and sports of all kinds. The death of Clodius and all that it meant was less than the vehement rumor that two of the wrestlers had allegedly accepted bribes. The famine had passed; the meanest man in the street was comparatively affluent and able to lay large bets on his favorites. The daily newspaper contained little national news and only excited conjectures as to the sports about to begin. One day the broadcasts did make a mention that the heroic revolt in Gaul, led by Vercingetorix the patriot, had been crushed by Julius Caesar and that Caesar, in consequence, was an awesome hero. Caesar remained in Gaul to restore order, and Pompey, seizing this advantage, announced himself sole Consul. He also obtained, in his plodding military fashion, the proconsularship of the Spanish Provinces.

  “The lion and the bear will soon be at each other’s throats,” Cicero wrote to a friend. “Will Rome emerge the victor? It is doubtful.”

  “We do not meddle in politics,” said Cicero’s friends, the “new” men, the middle-class like himself, the lawyers, doctors, businessmen, manufacturers, architects. “Rome is prosperous and at peace. We have our villas in Caprae, ou
r racing vessels, our houses, our servants, our pretty mistresses, and our comfort and treasures. We implore you, Cicero: Do not disturb us with your lamentations of disaster! Rome is on the march to the mighty society, for all Romans.”

  Cicero, in despair, began to write his book De Legibus (On the Laws). Atticus deeply admired this scholarly work. “But, who will read it?” he asked. “Romans care nothing for law any longer. Their bellies are too full.” As a conscientious publisher, however, he issued the book. “I owe it to posterity.” Cicero laughed sadly. “Posterity” never learned. To Cicero’s amazement, and to Atticus’, the book was bought in immense quantities in the bookshops, and Caesar, on receiving a copy, extolled it. “What is wrong with it, then?” asked Cicero with a sour smile. “So far as I am concerned, the praise of Caesar is the kiss of death.” He was congratulated by Senators, tribunes, and magistrates, “who,” he declared, “did not understand a word of it!”

  He could find no peace even in his own household now, and could not ignore what was transpiring. Terentia was becoming more captious and restless. “One does not stand still,” she would say. “Why are you not advancing? You owe it to your family.” Tullia was not happy in her marriage to Dolabella after all. Her manner was listless, though she smiled well enough at her insistent father and said she had no complaints. Quintus said of Julius Caesar: “He is superior in the field to Pompey. His decisions are always brilliant, though first of all he is a politician.” For the first time he did not denigrate men of politics. He refused to discuss the state of affairs in Rome with Cicero. He shrugged. “Things are as they are in their nature,” he would say vaguely. To be a soldier was to be all; wise men abandoned politics when they became too complex. His brother should concentrate on his seat in the Senate, his position as augur, his library, his writings. “Is that not enough to satisfy you at your age?”

  Cicero said, “‘Hear ye the word of God—For God hath a controversy with the inhabitants. For there is no truth, nor loving-kindness, nor knowledge of God in the land. There is naught save lying and perjury, murder and stealing, violence and bloodshed.’”

  “What is that?” asked Quintus, with mistrust.

  “The words of a prophet, Hosea, of whom Noë ben Joel has written me.”

  “Oh, Noë. That actor and writer of plays!” said Quintus.

  Then Cicero received a letter from Jerusalem in a strong hand. It was from Leah, the wife of Noë, sadly announcing the death of her husband. “He recalled you with his last breath,” she wrote. “He asked me to repeat to you the words of Isaias: ‘Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. When you pass through the waters I will be with you. And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire you shall not be burned. Neither shall the flame kindle upon you. For I, the Lord, your God, hold your right hand.’”

  “Why do you weep?” asked Terentia.

  “The earth is poorer,” said Cicero. “It has lost a good man, and we cannot afford it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  “The years of a man are a long retreat,” said Cicero to one of his friends, with great weariness. “I have heard that as a man grows older time flies. No, it flees before him. Where was yesterday, last month, last year, five years ago? I do not remember!”

  He did not know the reason—though his friends assured him it was flattering—but he was assigned to the province of Cilicia on the southern coast of Asia Minor, including the island of Cyprus, as governor. “Someone wishes me out of the way for a while,” he said without illusion. He wrote to Atticus, “It is a monstrous bore, this governorship. They have put a saddle on an ox. I cannot describe to you the warmth of my longing for the city or the difficulty I feel in putting up with this boredom. I miss the broad daylight of life in Rome, the Forum, the city, my town house—and you, dearest of friends. (I will complete the book! Do not press me!) I will endure my ‘exile’ for a year. God knows what will transpire in my absence!”

  He took with him young Marcus, against the protests of the cosseting Terentia, for he had become aware that the mother’s influence was injuring the son. Quintus, on leave, also accompanied him, and young Quintus. Cicero soon found that he had much to do in Cilicia, for the province had been ruined and looted by predecessors from Rome. But in a few months he could write to Atticus with pride, “A great number of states have been entirely released from debt by my efforts, and many very sensibly relieved. All now have their own laws and with attainment of autonomy have quite revived. I have given them the opportunity of freeing themselves from debt or lightening their burdens in two ways, first in the fact that no expense has been imposed upon them in my government, and when I say ‘no expense’ I mean none, not a penny. It is almost incredible how this has helped them escape from their difficulties. The other way is this: There was an astonishing amount of peculation in the states committed by the Greeks themselves. They confessed it; without being openly punished they repaid the money to the communities out of their own pockets. The consequence is that whereas the communities had paid the tax syndicates nothing for the present five-year period, they have now without any distress paid them the arrears of the last five years also. The rest of my administration of justice has not been without skill.”

  The hot and dry and aromatic climate assuaged his rheumatism. He was busy with what he loved best, the administering of honest law. He had time for writing. He had the company of his brother, son, and nephew. He regretted that his handsome young son seemed more and more to be led by the bold and exigent young Quintus the delight of his soldier father’s eyes. “You must be more independent,” he would say to young Marcus, and the boy would say solemnly, “Quintus has little pleasure in the arts of Greece and Rome and does not love philosophy. I instruct him.” Cicero believed his son. Quintus, too, was busy, in subduing the hill tribes. In the meantime friends kept Cicero informed of the affairs in Rome, which were becoming more and more chaotic.

  Pompey and Caesar were now deadly enemies. Pompey had become the confidant of the Senate and in large measure he controlled that august body which had begun to suspect Julius, and with justification. Pompey, the soldier, might despise civilians, but he did not despise the Senate. It was rumored that both he and the Senate were fearful of Julius and his ambitions, and that they were conspiring together not only to relieve Julius of his military command but to prosecute him for alleged Constitutional illegalities during the time he had been Consul, and prevent his second election. On becoming a private citizen he would be open to investigation, something which he could hardly survive, as Cicero commented to himself.

  The struggle became more open and more dangerous for Rome. The legions were divided in their allegiances, half for Pompey, the other half for Caesar, who was much more colorful. Cicero, bewildered, said to his brother, “I do not understand all this! Law is the Senate, the Assemblies, the tribunes, the Consuls! What has law to do with the ambitions of two military men, Pompey and Caesar?” But he knew that when a republic declines it becomes the prize of the ambitious. He wrote to his friend, Caelius, a young politician in Rome, for more enlightenment, for Caelius was a great gossip and involved in everything. Caelius replied: “The point on which the men in power are bound to fight is this: Pompey has made up his mind not to allow Caesar to become Consul again except on condition of his first handing over his army and provinces, while Caesar is convinced that he cannot be safe from Pompey if he gives up his army, the source of his strength. He, however, with humor, proposes as a compromise that both give up their armies!”

  He thought Cicero somewhat naïve when the latter wrote in a puzzled manner:

  “In the case of domestic difficulties and differences, so long as the contest is carried on Constitutionally without an appeal to arms, men ought to follow the party most in the right; when it comes to war—war!—and the camp, with one military leader threatening the other, then just civilian law must interpose itself and halt the whole dangerous nonsense.”


  Civil war, instigated by Pompey and Caesar, seemed incredible to him in his peaceful spot in Cilicia. He still clung to his concept that in a republic law was paramount. He preferred Pompey, who had the Senate with him and the respectable “new” men of Rome, and the law-abiding. But what had Julius once said to Cicero, years ago?: “Law is a harlot, and can be bought at the highest price.” To Cicero this attitude was the ruin of nations, the final plunge into despotism and chaos.

  But though he agreed with Pompey, Cicero did not love him. He feared and disagreed with Julius, and loved him. He was in a fearful state when he left Cilicia at the end of his governorship, and stopped at his villa in Formiae. There he received a letter from Caelius who wrote cynically that Julius was certain to win power in Rome—and without war—“for in his plunderings and campaigns he has piled up incredible amounts of gold, and law can be purchased by gold, and the people also.”

  When Cicero returned to Rome he went at once to Julius in his villa in the suburbs. Julius was delighted to see him, and embraced him ardently. “Wherever you go, dearest friend, you bring solvency and good government!” Julius exclaimed. “Verily, we should give you the dictatorship of Rome! You would fill the Treasury in the twinkling of an eye, and restore peace.”

  “Which you have destroyed,” said Cicero. “Why do not you and Pompey lay down your arms and stop your quarreling?”

  “Ah,” said Julius, sadly. “Pompey is a true militarist, and you know how you have always mistrusted militarists! They acclaim me in Rome as the mightiest soldier of them all, but I was never truly at heart a soldier. So, I am opposed to this suet-head of a Pompey who thinks cold iron is the way to govern a country. He does not trust the civilian mind. This affronts me.”

  “Julius, you never spoke the truth in your life,” said Cicero, and Julius was amused.

  Just before the Saturnalia the Senate passed a motion that both Pompey and Caesar must lay down their arms. Caesar responded to this motion with public enthusiasm, and the people acclaimed him, for they were fearful of a civil war between those two mighty opponents. But Pompey was not deceived. He suspected the dexterity of Caesar, and as an old acquaintance and former friend and son-in-law, he knew Julius too well. He said to the Senate, “I will not lay down my arms, the only protection Rome possesses for law and order, until Caesar retires to civilian life. I will not countenance him as Consul again.” He had received, he told the Senate, stories of disaffection among Caesar’s legions, and that one of Caesar’s own generals, Labienus, was ready to desert to the Senate. “It is no longer a struggle between Pompey and Caesar,” they said to each other. “It is a struggle between law and Caesar.”