A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Taylor Caldwell

  Scaevola, held in such terror by the venal men among the Senators, sat to the left of the entrance, just inside, sprawled in his chair, his admirers clustered thickly about him. Among them were Julius Caesar, Quintus (who had raced so fast to the Forum that he had passed Noë’s litter), Archias, Marcus’ former tutor and now a famous personage in Rome because of his published poetry, several strange youths, and a mass of admirers, fledgling lawyers and old lawyers, pupils and devoted friends. His entourage was far larger than the entourages of other lawyers, almost as distinguished as himself, and there was a constant migration of men from the circles of others to that of Scaevola. One could always be sure of a bitter and acid witticism from the lips of the formidable old man, who in his dress despised dignity but possessed it in his person, whose great bald head shone like a moon.

  Marcus knew that Scaevola was not there today, personally, to “use his sword to move a pebble.” Nevertheless, he was joyous to see him. He announced his business to the guards at the entrance, then hastened within with Noë, and went at once to his old teacher. Scaevola was sprawled in his chair, at ease, scratching at the large mole on his cheek, which, because it sprouted black hairs, resembled a spider. His entourage was laughing heartily at some joke. They all turned to stare at Marcus and Noë as at intruders. Scaevola regarded his pupil with those amazingly small but vividly blue eyes of his, and smiled faintly, showing his long yellow teeth.

  “Greetings, Lord,” said Marcus, formally, bowing.

  “Greetings, Marcus,” said Scaevola. He studied the young man. “We are splendidly arrayed this day. I did not recognize you.”

  “Greetings, Lord,” said Noë, bowing also.

  Scaevola inclined his head without reply. He resumed his study of Marcus. “No,” he said, “I should not have recognized you. The Senate will think you a patrician.” He spoke with satire. But Quintus, standing beside Julius Caesar, beamed proudly upon his brother.

  Archias said, “It is a proud occasion for me, my dear Marcus,” and embraced his former student with deep affection.

  The mass about Scaevola stared curiously at the young lawyer. Many eyes were respectful.

  Then Julius said, “Dear Marcus, I have invoked Mars in your behalf.”

  “I am not about to fight a battle,” said Marcus, unable to keep from smiling at that mischievous and attractive young face.

  “Are you not?” said the young man with impudence.

  “This Julius,” said Scaevola, with a wave of his fat hand. “His uncle was the great Marius, now—eh, unfortunately?—dead. What will happen to him and his family when Sulla returns, as he most surely will?”

  Julius had a beguiling voice. “Do you think my family, Master, places all its money on one chariot in the races—or all its influence?” He was thin, not as tall as Marcus, and gave the impression of intense vivacity. He turned to the watchful youth beside him, who was very handsome and who had alert gray eyes of a peculiar luminescence. “Permit me, Marcus, to present my friend, Gnaeus Pompey (Pompeius). His father is a dear friend of Sulla’s,” he winked with good temper. “We are like brothers. Speaking in confidence, Pompey fought with Sulla, also.”

  “Aha,” said Scaevola. He moved his massive shoulders in slight laughter.

  Pompey bowed to Marcus, who was his own age. “I pray you all success, Marcus Tullius Cicero,” he said, gravely. “He who is a friend of Julius is a friend of mine.”

  “Always make as many friends as possible,” said Scaevola. “Then, in an emergency, if you have a score of friends, you can count on one. Sometimes.”

  “I have many more than a score of friends,” said Julius, raising his voice above the clamor about them within the portico of the Senate, and without. “I am devoted to the human race.” He spoke in a serious voice, and with a serious expression, but his black eyes danced.

  Marcus had been gazing at the young Pompey, and he could not tell whether or not he liked the young man’s appearance. He was no nonentity, though he wore no insignia which could identify him. From Julius’ air of patronage Marcus came to the conclusion that Pompey was plebeian. Yet his dress, a simple white tunic bordered with the Greek key in crimson, was not coarse.

  “I am here,” said Scaevola, “because I have concluded some cases before the Senate, and because I have a number more at noon.”

  So, thought Marcus, he is now making it plain to me and to the others that he will give me no assistance. “Should you win,” said Scaevola, with a supreme air of neutrality, “I shall lead the applause, however.” He scratched the mole again, not taking his eyes from Marcus. “You are not nervous? You have memorized your address fully?”

  “I am not using the one you have heard,” said Marcus, bending to speak in his teacher’s ear. Scaevola’s mighty head jerked backward, and he stared up into the young man’s face and despite himself his eyes showed sharp concern.

  “No? And your first case? This is folly. You will ruin it all in confusion.”

  “I think not. I hope not,” said Marcus.

  Julius, who always heard everything, said, “Who can listen to Marcus’ musical and compelling voice, touched both with hauteur and majestic humility, and not be moved?”

  Archias deftly rearranged a fold that fell from Marcus’ shoulder. He said, “One is moved, most of all, by his passionate sincerity and his belief in ultimate justice. One can question that innocence, but one must respect it for what it is.”

  But Scaevola, for all his air of neutrality, was disturbed more than any of those present could guess. Because he was disturbed, he was angry at Marcus.

  “Take your place,” he said abruptly, waving Marcus on to the end of a line of lawyers waiting to be called. There were four before him, and he joined them. He was taller than any; his long neck lifted his well-formed if somewhat small head; the sunlight from the open doors behind him gilded the back of his head, which rippled with soft brown hair. It gave his profile, with its long nose—and because of that profile’s pallor—the aspect of a statue. His shoulders were too narrow, but the heavy folds of the toga draped them gracefully. Once he turned a little, and the sunlight behind him struck on the ball of his eye, showing its mysterious and changing colors. He will do, thought Scaevola, and though he did not believe in the gods at all he angrily invoked several. Would nothing, he reflected, ever change that serene and petrified brow to one plowed with wrinkles? Would the years—if he survived—remove that glow of light in his eye? What a thing it is, thought Scaevola, with irascible pity, to observe a man of principle in these days! It is like coming upon sunlit Apollo when one expected dark Pan with his smells, his dancing hoofs, his goatish legs, and his maddening pipes.

  There were only thirty Senators present today. It had alarmed Scaevola that a few of them—if only a few—were men of integrity and honor, with no blemish on their public or personal lives. The Senators knew that the pontifex maximus was there; the evil ones among them would be uncertain concerning Marcus, wondering if Scaevola’s hidden sword guarded him. The Senators of integrity would be indifferent.

  Moreover, the Senator Curius was present, a most evil man, the father of Marcus’ old enemy who was a friend of Lucius Sergius Catilina. Curius would remember the story of Marcus’ defeat of Lucius; he was a proud as well as a vicious man, and was closely attached to the Catilinii, and was a relative of Livia. Out of spite alone—for vicious men in high positions were notorious for spite—he would be hostile to Marcus first because he was a son of an obscure knight who had not even been born in Rome and second because of Lucius.

  Scaevola turned to Noë, who was standing at a little distance watching Marcus closely. Scaevola beckoned him to his side, and peremptorily waved away a number of clients, friends, and admirers, indicating that he wished to discuss a private subject. Noë bent over him. Scaevola said, “Your father has returned to the bosom of his loving family. Does he know how it was done?”

  “The Almighty and merciful God delivered him,” said Noë.

  �
�Ha,” said Scaevola, shaking his head. “You have not disillusioned him?”

  “He would only then repeat his belief in the mercy of an Almighty God, who uses His creatures to establish His will.”

  “Ha,” said Scaevola, again.

  “He believes in the honor of Rome,” said Noë, winking. “He is proud that he is a Roman citizen, that his son is so, and that three of his sons-in-law are also Roman citizens.”

  Scaevola sighed. “Nevertheless, my dear Noë, he and his wife, your mother, must fly Rome at once and return to their beloved Jerusalem. It will be fatal for them to remain here. I may die tonight, and who knows if my son will have the courage to use what I have used?”

  “The old story, again,” said Noë, frowning with distress.

  “The Jews are a wise and ancient race,” said Scaevola. “Therefore, they have prudently concerned themselves with assets which can be removed with expedition and at a moment’s notice.”

  “My father,” said Noë, “frequently quotes the old Hebrew saying that an ungrateful son will bite the edge of the table. I am his ungrateful son, according to him.”

  “Gods,” said Scaevola, impatiently. “How can I endure any longer these innocent ones? I care not how you do it, Noë, but your parents must flee Rome almost at once.”

  “Will they be safer there?”

  “Yes. Your father’s presence in Rome is a reminder to these scoundrels of the infamy of their lives, which I had brought to their attention. Your father is an old man; he may have a convenient failure of the heart, or an accident, or a slave could poison him, or he could fall down a flight of stairs in his offices, or a serpent, crawling into his cubiculum could attack him.”

  He irritably waited to see Noë’s expression change to one of horror. But Noë’s face was only thoughtful and alarmed.

  “I will study this matter,” said Noë. “It must be expeditious?”

  “Yes. Ha. Our Marcus is now second in line. Does he not look magnificent, arrayed like this?”

  Noë, after a quick glance at Marcus, bowed his head, covering it Unobtrusively with a part of his toga. He had not prayed sincerely for years. He found himself imploring God with fervor.

  “He is now first!” cried Julius Caesar, with excitement.

  “My noble brother,” said Quintus, and softly clapped his hands.

  Marcus had begun to tremble in the last moments; his sweating hand clutched Julius’ ivory rod. A streak of moisture ran down his right cheek. Light fell from the high windows; huge though the chamber was the heat was frightful. The immensely high roof was painted white and was of wood smoothly joined, and bore a design of carved squares in which a decoration like a rose had been gilded. The effect was calm and monumental. The walls, too, were of wood, laid over the brick, and these also were painted in purest white ornamented with lines and scrolls of gold. The floor glimmered like a lake, for it was composed of elaborate mosaics laid in swirling patterns of white, gold, blue, and purple. Oval niches, tall and with backgrounds of mosaic, and guarded by slender white columns, appeared at intervals along the walls, and in these niches stood beautifully executed statues of heroes and gods, mostly purloined from Greece. Before each statue was a narrow altar on which incense burned, filling the heated air with thin blue coils of smoke and intensifying the heat with odors. At the end of the Senate Chamber was a high stone platform on which stood a huge marble chair, cushioned in velvet. Here the Consul sat in state. He was a small dark man with a face resembling a gloomy ape, but his eyes glittered with intelligence and an irascibility worse than Scaevola’s. His white toga was wrinkled; his scarlet shoes appeared to annoy his feet.

  Three broad marble steps, like podiums, stood shallowly along two sides of the chamber, and on these sat the comparatively few Senators who had appeared today, formidable in their white robes, golden girdles and armlets, and ornamented scarlet shoes. They sat with weary negligence, their chairs at different angles. It was apparent that they were bored and hot and impatient. They chatted indolently together, and yawned.

  In the center of the floor stood Marcus’ manacled client, Persus, and his more lightly chained young and weeping wife, and his little children, also with chains on their wrists.

  Marcus did not at first see his wretched clients. He was looking at the Senators, and his heart quailed. One of the Senators, he saw with alarm, was regarding him very closely and with a tight and vindictive expression, as if already exulting in Marcus’ approaching defeat. He scrutinized the patrician with sudden attention. His face was familiar, yet he was certain he had never seen him before. Then, with another lunge of the heart, he saw that the Senator bore a remarkable likeness to Curius the younger, and he knew this was Senator Curius, the father.

  He directed his eyes to his clients, who were all gazing at him beseechingly, their tear-wet white faces lighting up at the sight of their supposed deliverer. It was their abject suffering, the chains upon them, their helplessness before tyranny, their slight and emaciated bodies, their wide and stricken eyes, which made him momentarily forget the Senators and even Senator Curius. He went at once to the side of Persus, and laid his hand gently on the prisoner’s shoulder. “Be comforted and of hope,” he said, and despised himself for his words. For he did not believe in them, himself.

  The aedile was droning in a bored voice, “Prisoner, one Persus, plebeian and small farmer outside the gates of Rome, and his wife, Maia, and his two children, a boy of ten, a female of six years. The charge is failure to pay just taxes levied upon Persus by the authority and law of the Roman Republic, and to have evaded those taxes justly levied, to the scandal and hurt of his countrymen, and in defiance of the majesty of Rome. The farm of Persus has already been seized in part payment of the just taxes, and the slaves also, three of which he possessed. His household goods and cattle have also been seized. Nevertheless, the debt is less than half paid. The prisoner is guilty of all charges.”

  He was an insignificant man, and he mimicked his ennui-saturated lords obsequiously. He flicked the scroll from which he had been reading with a contemptuous finger and paused, and looked at the lofty ceiling.

  “The lawyer. Surely there is a lawyer,” said one of the Senators, who had a face like a sharp coin and was of a distinguished appearance.

  “One,” said the aedile, peering at his scroll as if he were having difficulty in deciphering so unworthy a name, “Marcus Tullius Cicero, son of an obscure knight, born in Arpinum.” He paused to let this ridiculous fact impress itself on the Senators. He added reluctantly, “He is the son of the Lady Helvia of the noble Helvii family, and student of the pontifex maximus, Scaevola.”

  “His qualifications are accepted,” said the old Senator.

  “I crave your pardon, Senator Servius,” said Senator Curius in an acid voice, as thin and poisonous as vitriol. “Is it indicated that this—this advocate—is a citizen of Rome?”

  The question, of course, was superfluous, and the Senator knew it. Senator Servius looked at his younger colleague haughtily, and said with vexation, “Certainly! Who can plead before us who is not?”

  Curius wishes to humiliate me, thought Marcus.

  “Cicero,” repeated Senator Curius with the slight inflection that made the name absurd. “Chick-pea. It is extraordinary.”

  “When we consider the lowliness of all our ancestors, who founded Rome, then it is most extraordinary that we sit here at all,” said Senator Servius, and Marcus knew at once that the old worn man was no friend of Curius, and he took some heart. Scaevola had taught him that it was necessary for a lawyer first to establish sympathy with at least one of the judges.

  In turn the Senators saw a very young man, tall and too slender, with too long a neck and with long and narrow hands. His face had much virility, though it was tight with anxiety. His eyes were beautiful. His brown and waving hair clustered about his pale cheeks. His dress, the Senators observed, was dignified and rich and there was a costly ring upon his left hand, and he held a rod of authority in
his hand richly chased in bright silver. His shoes were as white as snow. Above all, his brow was noble.

  Then they saw his resolute expression, the carved firmness of his lips. Senator Servius leaned forward in his chair the better to observe him. This movement seemed friendly to Marcus and he smiled. Instantly his face was charming, tender, almost dazzling with a light of its own. He did not know the value of his smile.

  So once was I, thought the old Senator, Servius. But it is I no more. So was my son, who died in the Social War, and who believed in man’s inherent nobility. It is always innocence which dies, and it is always evil which prevails.

  Nevertheless, the Senator was an honest man and celebrated law as strictly as did Marcus.

  The aedile said to Marcus, hardly glancing at him, “What is your plea, Master?”

  “Not guilty of any crime against Rome,” said Marcus.

  The Senators stirred in umbrage. The crowd in and without the door raised a buzz of voices. A guard quieted them sternly. The prisoner and his wife and children wept; the little girl, in her coarse tunic, raised a tremulous cry and tried to reach her mother and could not.

  “Not guilty of a proved crime?” demanded Servius. He scowled at the scroll in his hand.

  “He is not.”

  “The law is specific,” said Curius, with a gesture of disgust which indicated the baseness of the advocate. “Does this farmer owe taxes or not? He does. Does the law state that in this event his goods and his properties shall be seized in satisfaction of the debt? It does. Does it also say that if the goods and properties are not sufficient he and his family shall be sold into slavery for further satisfaction? It does. It is the law.”

  “Yet, this Cicero would declare he is not guilty!”

  “It is the law,” said Servius. He was a little sorry for Marcus, but also irritated. “Do you wish to reject the law, Cicero? Have you no respect for it?”

  “Lord,” said Marcus, in a fervent voice which rang through the chamber, “there is no one more devoted to honorable law than I, no, not in all of Rome! For men without law are animals, and nations without it fall into anarchy. I bow before the Twelve Tables of Roman Law. No one serves them with more profundity and pride and solicitude. And so I say my client is innocent.”