A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Let me ride with you, Master, as a guard in the night and in the day, to Rome.”

  Marcus considered, then shook his head. “Your absence, then, might be noted. To be safe only a little I must go alone. Once I am in Rome I will not be unguarded. You can be certain of that! Moreover, I have friends of influence in the city.”

  “But the country is disturbed, Master, and dangerous.”

  “It was when I came here also. It is not more dangerous now.”

  Again, he marveled that he had been attacked at all. Who should want him dead? And, if they wanted him dead, why had they arranged so elaborate a plot? Such plots were born only against the powerful and influential, to avoid the appearance of overt murder and thus challenge revenge. He, Marcus Tullius Cicero, was not of importance to anyone, save his family.

  Rome had seized all the best horses for the war. Therefore, the one which would be brought to him would not have great stamina and youth. It was not a pleasant thought for a fleeing man. Athos gave voice to it, and Marcus assented. The best horse available arrived, saddled, led by a slave, and another slave brought warm clothing and food and a sword and Marcus’ purse.

  Athos helped him to his feet. It was only then that he realized how wretchedly weak he was, and his heart failed as he swayed in the freedman’s arms. “You cannot go! Master, come what may, you must return to the house and rest for a day and a night.”

  Marcus reluctantly shook his head. “No. Your lives would not be safe. I must go at once. Do not restrain me, Athos.”

  The freedman and the slave dressed him. His whole body trembled with his exhaustion. His bones seemed to shake in his flesh; his skin was sore and wounded. The woolen tunic and the heavy dark cloak with its hood could not warm him. His feet were swollen from the water, and he struggled to pull on his high leather shoes. Athos clasped his waist with the silver girdle Noë had given him, and affixed thereto his sword, which he rarely wore, and added his Alexandrian dagger, the gift of Quintus on his birthday so long ago, before the rites of manhood. His purse was attached to the girdle also. Marcus looked at the horse, a poor and docile creature of many years, used more to the plow than to carrying a horseman. He patted the horse as if to reassure it. It snorted once and nuzzled his hand. The bag of provisions was lifted and tied to the saddle.

  It took much effort, even with the aid of Athos, to climb into the saddle and thrust his feet into the stirrups. He took the reins. The moon was much brighter now for all it was only a crescent, and there was a wide shimmer of starlight. Worse, the only exit from the island was the bridge. He leaned from the saddle to press his hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Come with me, until I have crossed the bridge. I may need your daggers.”

  Athos walked on one side, the slave on the other, and the horse nervously ambled forward. He was old, and he was tired from the fields and he had been too early aroused. The men did not speak as they moved toward the bridge. They held their breath, and kept glancing from side to side, daggers in their hands. Marcus held his unsheathed sword.

  He heard only the sound of the horse’s hoofs and the rustling of grass and trees and the mutter of the river. No one spoke. They reached the bridge, and the horse awakened a small thunder on it. Athos and the slave moved closer to the animal and its rider. But no one approached them. Arpinum, asleep, was dark save for moonlight flowing wanly over its climbing roofs. The dark river hurried in broken silver. Then the three men were across the bridge and the road to Rome lay before them, smooth and straight.

  “Will you take the road, Master, or keep far from it?” asked Athos with anxiety. “Your enemies may, themselves, be upon it, and may hear your approach.”

  “I have no choice. I must take the road or be lost. If my unknown enemies are upon it, they must have better horses and be long gone. I doubt they would reveal themselves as strangers, in Arpinum, for fear of suspicion.”

  Marcus thought of the long ride. He had come on this very poor horse, and it had taken two days and a long night. He had not dared to stop at any inn, for the country was in chaos still, and there were armed men and scoundrels everywhere, taking advantage of any traveler who came alone. The only men who dared to travel casually were the legionnaires, and they rode in company, armored and with unsheathed swords. With the exception of fools like me, thought Marcus. At night, he had slept in his cloak far from the road, his horse tethered near him, his sword in his hand. And, as tonight, he had carried his own provisions. He had encountered stray fellow travelers, and they had stared at him with hostility, and he had returned it, for strangers were suspect. Even couriers rode in company. He had escaped any attack because he was dressed humbly, and his horse was not notable, and his purse had been hidden, and he had halted nowhere. He hoped that he would escape so easily again. In many ways it was safer to travel at night, for marauders considered that only soldiers would be abroad.

  He leaned from his saddle to embrace the frightened Athos, and to kiss his cheek. Athos gripped his hand. “Master, I am afraid,” he said.

  “So am I,” said Marcus. “Pray for me. I must go now. Return, and keep silent.”

  He gathered up the reins, remembering dismally that he was a poor horseman also, and was always chafed by leather. It was excellent to be a man of books. But in these days a man with sturdy thighs and buttocks and a strong back was even more excellent.

  “Do not sheathe your sword, Master,” said Athos, holding to the saddle.

  “Not for an instant,” Marcus promised him. He was still trembling, but his heart was steadier. Then he lifted his hand, spurred the horse gently, and rode away down the glimmering road that led to Rome, the horse raising echoes in the night silence. Marcus did not look back at his faithful servants. His hair was still wet under the hood, and streaked against his cheeks. He tried not to remember how long was the way to the mighty city on her seven hills, and how dangerous was his passage.

  He encountered no one coming or going, and he began to breathe more easily. He did not goad the old horse. Sometimes he spoke to it kindly and with encouragement. “At least,” he said, “you have had a little sleep. You have also had your supper. That is because you are wiser than I.”

  He did not halt until the horse was panting and lathered, and that was at the darkest hour near dawn. He alighted and led the horse to the river that ran near the road, and let the poor creature have his fill. Now utter weariness took him also. He must rest or fall from the saddle in a stupor. He took the horse across the road and into a small forest, where tree frogs piped for Pan. When he was certain he was hidden, he wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down with his sword in his hand. He was instantly asleep.

  He awoke to full sunlight. The forest was in fuller leaf than the little forests of the island, for all he was traveling north. Marcus saw precious greenness about him, and sharp golden shadows which broke through the trees. His horse had slept also; it was cropping the lush grass. It turned a mild eye upon Marcus, and snorted affectionately. Marcus scratched his mosquito bites, yawned, and rubbed his aching head. He untied his bag of provisions, ate some bread and cheese and cold meat, and drank a little raw red wine. In a few minutes he was on the way again, riding not too fast, hoping that he would be taken for a rude bumpkin by any wary traveler. But he encountered no one for several hours.

  The sun was hot for all it was only spring. Marcus dismounted once to refresh himself with a clump of forgotten dates on a palm, and to bathe his drawn face in the river. The horse ate also, and drank. “You are a true Roman,” Marcus addressed the animal. “You live off the land, but I am too effete to have that knowledge for all I was born in the country.” The horse replied with a soft neigh, and nodded his head as if he understood. “But still, dear friend,” said Marcus, “I must be grateful enough to you to pause to buy you some oats, even if it is dangerous.”

  He mounted and rode down the empty way again, the horse’s hoofs ringing on the stone. “Ah, you are a brave one,” said Marcus. “I give you my solemn promise that never
shall you work again, but shall browse in green meadows for the rest of your life.”

  He looked about him now for a lonely and isolated farmhouse where he could purchase some oats for his horse and perhaps replenish his own store of food. For the horse was slightly lame, and could not travel fast any longer. The countryside was green and gold and silent. There were cultivated fields on the right, but no houses. On the left, the river hurried. Finally it disappeared as the road struck more surely north toward Rome.

  Marcus drowsed in the saddle, awakening briefly to full consciousness. His body throbbed; his thighs and ankles were already badly chafed. He had not thought to ask for ointment to relieve them, and the slaves had packed hastily for him and had too much to remember. Moreover, they were not depraved city men like himself. They could travel for days without discomfort. Horse and rider passed olive groves, silvery and gnarled in the bright spring light, and fragrant citrus groves, and meadows full of sheep and goats. But there were no houses.

  Then he heard the thunder of horses behind him. He pulled up his own horse, and began to tremble with fear. He spurred the horse off the road and into a copse of trees, and he put his hand on the horse’s nose to keep him quiet. But he also heard, as the riders came nearer, the rumble of a chariot, and the rude voices of men. He peered through the trees and saw a detachment of legionnaires sweep by him grandly, banners blowing behind them, faces lifted. They surrounded a car of respectable ornamentation, guided by a soldier; on the seat within sat a centurion in his cloak, his helmet glittering bravely.

  Forgetting that his horse was lame and old Marcus goaded it onto the road again and raised his voice in a shout. He shouted over and over, until a riding soldier finally heard him, and turned his head. The soldier evidently spoke to his companions, for they slowed, and all heads twisted to survey Marcus gallantly riding up. The chariot halted, and the centurion, a bearded man like a barbarian, scowled upon the approaching rider.

  “Hail!” cried Marcus with gratitude, lifting his right hand in the stiff military salute.

  “Hail,” said the centurion without notable enthusiasm. He scowled more forbiddingly.

  “Marcus Tullius Cicero, lawyer, of Rome, and of the Ciceroni and the Helvii,” Marcus said, smiling with delight.

  “Ha,” said the centurion, looking at the other’s humble cloak and tunic. His brown eyes sharpened as he saw the unsheathed sword. He was suspicious. The soldiers did not stir their harsh faces but stared straight ahead as if Marcus did not exist. “Why have you halted us?” the centurion demanded.

  “For safe passage into Rome,” said Marcus, too happy to be daunted by the soldier’s manner. Never had he been so happy to see the banners of his city and the countenances of his grim countrymen. “And oats for my horse,” he added.

  “We carry provisions only for ourselves,” said the centurion, who evidently considered Marcus a poor fellow indeed. He glumly looked at the horse. “That is not a fine steed, Cicero. He would not keep pace with us. You said you were a lawyer? Why are you abroad these dangerous days, and alone?”

  “A sensible question, but I must confess, alas, that I am not a sensible man,” said Marcus. The centurion did not smile. The many horses snorted impatiently. Marcus became aware of the unfriendliness about him. He said with some haste, “My brother is Quintus Tullius Cicero, a centurion himself, and now in Gaul.”

  “Ha,” said the centurion again, as if he considered this a likely tale. Marcus was a little dismayed. He studied the centurion, who appeared to be a man of fifty years or more. He said, “My grandfather was Marcus Tullius Cicero also, and a soldier and a Roman, a veteran of many wars.”

  “Marcus Tullius Cicero,” repeated the centurion, mouthing the words. Then his browned and sullen face relaxed a little. “He, your grandfather, was from Arpinum?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember him well,” said the centurion, and he began to smile. “I was only a subaltern, but he was my captain. A noble soldier.”

  His men began to notice Marcus’ existence, but their eyes were full of wonder at his appearance and at the condition of his old horse.

  “Why are you not a soldier yourself?” asked the centurion.

  “I am a lawyer,” Marcus repeated. Then he said, “I intend to volunteer my time in the legions.” This was meretricious, but it served to make the centurion smile again.

  “With your brother, Quintus,” he said.

  Marcus said gravely, “With my brother, Quintus.”

  “In Gaul.”

  “In Gaul,” Marcus echoed, shuddering inwardly.

  The captain grinned, and his bearded face was suddenly fatherly. “You are a liar, Cicero,” he said. “Your buttocks, no doubt, are already raw. You are no horseman. I observe that, from your seat. But I do not doubt that you are a lawyer, for all you appear as a peasant. Who is your mentor in Rome?”

  “The great old pontifex maximus, Scaevola,” said Marcus.

  “Scaevola!” cried the centurion. “My dear old friend! What a scoundrel he is, may Mars protect him! Is he still alive? I have been long away from Rome.”

  “He is alive, and he will thank you for protecting me,” said Marcus.

  The centurion sobered and grunted, annoyed with himself for his momentary pleasure. He sighed. He moved on his seat. “You may as well ride with me, and we will lead your horse, who would do better in the market as meat. I still cannot understand why a lawyer, a subordinate of Scaevola, a member of a great house, and a grandson of my captain, should be abroad under such circumstances, and have such a dirty and haggard face. I cannot understand.”

  “Nor can I,” said Marcus, joyfully dismounting and hobbling to the vehicle. “It is a long and sorrowful tale.” He climbed into the chariot.

  “I have no doubt,” said the centurion. “It is possible that you are again a liar. But it is more probable that you are a fool.”

  “I agree with you most heartily,” said Marcus, subsiding with a wince on the wide leather seat. “I am a total imbecile. I should be imprisoned for my own sake.”

  “And I agree with you even more heartily,” said the centurion. “Let us be gone. You have delayed me enough.”

  So Marcus, despite his earlier fears, rode with majesty into Rome the next day and for the first time in his life blessed the military. He was to bless them many times more, but not so fervently as this.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Helvia was astonished to see her son, for she had not expected him for some more days. Marcus, not to alarm her—for his father was ill with malaria again and his mother appeared tired for all her resolution—did not tell her of his encounter with his unknown and mysterious enemies. He merely said that he had become anxious to see her again, and had yearned to return to his family. Helvia was skeptical. She stared acutely at her son.

  “One understands that you love us,” she said with shrewdness. “But one understands that you also love the island. Moreover, you appear exhausted and too sombre. But I suppose I cannot expect confidences.” There was considerably more gray in her luxuriant hair, and lines in her ruddy face, all appearing in the last year.

  She was suddenly anxious. “There is no calamity on the island?”

  “No. All is well.” He embraced her again. She accepted his embrace and smiled, and her countenance was mischievous. “The less a woman knows of the antics of her men the more serene she can be,” she remarked.

  Scaevola was as astounded as Helvia when Marcus walked into his house the next day. “You rascal!” he cried. “What is this that I hear from my old friend, the centurion Marcius Basilus, that he encountered you on the road to Rome, in vagabond attire and with a limping horse and the face of a criminal in flight? Is that an appearance for one of my lawyers, furtive, dirty, clandestine?”

  “Let me tell you,” said Marcus, seating himself. His manner was so serious and grave that Scaevola forgot both his umbrage and his secret pleasure at seeing his favorite pupil.

  He listened, at first with
incredulity, his eyes fixed disbelievingly on Marcus’ face, then with blank bewilderment, then with rage, then with renewed astonishment. When Marcus had done, he sat sprawled fatly in his chair and scratched the mole on his cheek, pulled his heavy underlip, blinked, muttered. He considered the whole story in silence.

  Finally he said, “If anyone but you, imbecile, had told me of this I should not believe him! Have I not always said you were as bland as milk and as harmless as a dewdrop?”

  Marcus no longer considered this complimentary, in view of the lack of athletic prowess which had almost resulted in his death. Once he had been pleased, for he believed that men, to be civilized must not be dangerous; they should be conciliatory, concerned with peace and justice, kindly to all men, tolerant and urbane. Such men, he was almost convinced now, incited attack and murder.

  Scaevola tried to hide his concern with a short laugh. “You have not been seducing the wife of a Senator or other prominent man?”

  “Certainly I have not,” said Marcus. “My ladies are for hire.”

  Scaevola winked. “What ladies are not, especially the wives of these Senators? What enemies do you have? Whom have you offended?”

  “None who would be so infuriated as to plot my death so carefully, in order that it seem an accident. None of the clients you have referred to me is rich or important, and I have usually won their cases. Nor do I engage in politics, nor am I ambitious, like our Julius Caesar, nor am I rich so that heirs are greedy for my fortune. I have not been lured into intrigue either for or against Cinna; I am too busy. I have offended no husband, I have betrayed no woman. I am not a powerful soldier.”

  Scaevola raised his hand. “In short,” he said impatiently, “you are a pure draught of water in an earthen cup. I understand. Still, someone wished you dead. Your attempted assassins, you have related, appeared men of culture and refinement, and one had a marvelous ring. Repeat to me again the appearance of this ornament.”