A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Taylor Caldwell

  He had thought that he had put some restraint on his thoughts and his longings for Livia. Now he knew that the restraint had been false, that the fury of his love had only waited under his self-control for this moment. What had his life been, all these years, but a dullness and a monotony? He had not been alive at all. He had pursued duty, but duty was a grim and penurious mistress, with no flowers in her hands, no light in her hair, no song in her eyes. Men who espoused only duty became eunuchs. They begot no poetry, no grandeur, no splendid deeds. They lived in a gray cell, barred against the morning, and their fingers were smudged with dust.

  Marcus walked rapidly up and down his room, stumbling against table and chair and bookcase. “Where have I been, all these years!” he cried aloud to the sun at his window. He was like one who had been sternly dead and had been recalled to the living.

  Finally he composed himself a little and sat down, and rang the bell for the young clerk. The youth was intrigued at the sight of Marcus’ face, so pale yet so tense. “Tell me again of that lady who came to see me,” said Marcus. “Use no imagination. Tell me in simple words.”

  The clerk repeated what he had said. After he had dismissed the clerk again, Marcus considered. He was certain now that his visitor had been Livia. He must go to her at once! Then his natural prudence, though he now despised it, held him back. It was one thing to be certain in one’s mind, and another thing to be certain objectively. Should he send a message to Livia? But if it had not been Livia his message would only heighten her lost confusion. Worse, the letter might fall into the hands of Catilina, himself. If Livia had indeed come to this office, then Catilina could very probably become dangerous.

  “What shall I do then?” Marcus implored aloud. He had a premonition that time had become a desperately rushing emergency, like a river in full revolt. He dared not delay, yet he dared not make a move. Then he thought of Aurelia Caesar. She was his friend. Forgetting his lawyer’s prudence he wrote a letter to her and called in a messenger.

  He had painfully written in his letter: “I have reason to believe that Livia Catilina came to my office during my absence today. I was absent. Dear friend of my mother’s, can you give me any enlightenment?” He knew it was an almost hysterical message, but he had no other recourse. He added, “I beg of you that you keep this letter in confidence. You are the friend of the Catilinii, and you would know of the affairs of the family.”

  Then he had to wait. The red sunset of spring came through his window, and there was no reply. The sunset darkened, and the roar of the city became closer, and there was no reply. At last, when he had given up hope the answer came, written affectionately by Aurelia Caesar. She expressed no wonder at Marcus’ letter, for she was a woman who was matter-of-fact. Livia Catilina was not in Rome, and had not been in the city for some weeks. She and her son were visiting relatives near Naples. Aurelia added, “Livia has been strange for a long time, and it was thought by those who loved her that she should rest in the country.”

  The letter devastated Marcus. He was like the old leather of a wine bottle, which had been drained of its vital and sparkling substance. She had not been here at all. His new life went from him, and he gazed about him with dullness, loathing his existence, his dead hopes.

  He could deceive himself no longer. Without Livia, he was nothing. His self-revelation shook him savagely. Was it possible that always, through these years, he had hoped that Livia had not moved away from him forever, that one day she would be attainable? He had thought he had been wounded, but that he could live with his wound as other men lived. But today he had been revealed to himself with starkness. The light, for a few hours, had been light indeed, and life had poured in upon him in ecstasy and fulfillment and brilliant color. How could he endure the rest of his life, colorless, pedestrian, filled only with the things he must do, the cautious words he must utter, the paths he must tread carefully to the grave, the lifeless books he must read, the flaccid cases he must present to judges?

  He could afford a litter now with two slaves to carry it. He was borne to the house on the Carinae. He closed the curtains on the short journey. He did not want to see his city, and the multitudes of faces on the streets. He struggled with himself. I did not find my existence too intolerable until today. Surely I can resume it tomorrow. I must be a man.

  Quintus was at home, an invalid still, but recovering rapidly. His vital force was returning in great spurts. As usual, he was surrounded, in his cubiculum, by friends, and they were dicing on his blankets. It was a tremendous mystery to Marcus, who had few friends if any, why Quintus had them, and why he rejoiced in their company and found them satisfying. To Marcus, they were strong and vigorous youths, but callow, and expectant of life as all the callow are. They filled the cubiculum, which was the largest in the house, like mighty bear cubs, shouting and laughing and cursing as they threw the dice, and stamping in feigned wrath and drinking wine. They thought Marcus a serious elderly man, though he was but four or five years their senior. He thought of them as one thinks of children. He wished to avoid them and their noise today. But dutiful as always, he paused in the doorway to greet Quintus, and was met, as always, with an invitation to drink a goblet of wine. And again as always, he smiled amiably and refused. Then he hesitated for a moment to gaze at Quintus, and he recalled that not once had Quintus, since his recovery, mentioned the name of Catilina to him.

  Marcus’ pain of spirit extended beyond himself. The screaming, crashing world: there must surely be an end to the inharmonious roar that proceeds from man! The tiger, the eagle, the river, the lion, the thunder: they were one in enchanted clamor of being. Only man was alone; only man was the discord, the lute out of tune, the torn drum, the broken trumpet. He was an exile on this earth, for only he was afflicted with thought, and thought could kill a man, destroy him. Only man knew true grief. For what had he been created?

  The curtain of his cubiculum was drawn aside and Helvia stood there, her hands coarse and scored with her endless labor. She and Marcus looked at each other in silence. He could not speak. She nodded, as if in affirmation.

  “Something evil has come to you, my son,” she said. “But does it not, to all creatures? We must endure. That is our fate.”

  “I have lost patience,” he replied.

  Helvia shook her head. “You will regain it, Marcus.” She went away, and he was left alone with his despair.

  He looked at his table. He had begun a long series of essays for his publisher. He reached out and swept the scrolls from the table as if he could not bear the sight of them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The lightless days went on relentlessly. Then one morning a clerk came to Marcus and said, with excitement, “The noble Julius Caesar is here and wishes to speak with you, Master! And with him is the great patrician, Lucius Sergius Catilina!”

  Marcus was seized with a powerful revulsion and sickness. He shook himself. He warned himself not be be ridiculous. Catilina, who had saved Quintus’ life, had merely accompanied Julius out of idle friendship. But was it possible that Catilina had forgotten the old enmity, the old hatred? No, it was not possible. Marcus motioned to his clerk to admit his visitors, and stood up.

  It was still early spring, but the sun was hot and the office was flooded with golden light and warmth. Julius entered, flamboyant as always, and full of smiles and affection. “Greetings, Marcus!” he cried, embracing his old friend. He was magnificently attired in white and purple; his laced shoes, purple too, were decorated with gold. His dancing black eyes beamed upon the lawyer. Then Marcus saw Catilina over Julius’ shoulder.

  Catilina was dressed as a captain, in full brilliant armor, with a helmet shining like the sun and embossed, and inlaid with colorful enamel. His short sword swung at his side. He was as beautiful and as stately as a god; he was a young Mars, but beardless. His extraordinary blue eyes were like glowing jewels. His limbs were clean and marvelously wellformed, like a statue’s. His shoulders were broad, his neck faultless. He wore a
short crimson cloak over his armor, and there were golden armlets on his arms and rings upon his fingers. He glittered. He exhaled an air of power and splendor and dissolute casualness. He merely stood in silence and studied Marcus. If he felt enmity or contempt he did not reveal them.

  Marcus could say nothing at all. Then Catilina, who was subtle, smiled. With an expression of candor he held out his soldier’s hand to the lawyer. Mechanically, Marcus stretched out his own hand. But in the second before encounter both hands paused in mid-air and did not touch. Both dropped their hands. The space between them was like an unsheathed sword, glimmering with menace.

  “Greetings, Cicero,” said Catilina in his musical voice. “How is our dear Quintus?”

  “Well,” said Marcus. His own voice sounded thin and distant in his ears.

  “I must visit him,” said Catilina with ease.

  Marcus forced himself to speak louder. “I have never thanked you for saving his life, Lucius.”

  “We are soldiers,” said the other. Catilina smiled again. “And, I love your brother. He is artless and of a single mind. He is a true soldier. General Sulla sends him his affection.”

  It was unendurable to Marcus to speak of his brother to Catilina. He turned to Julius, who had nonchalantly seated himself, and who, during this exchange between the two enemies, had been examining the briefs on the table with no apology and no attempt to hide his curiosity. “Dull,” he said. “Here is a shopkeeper suing another man for thirty sesterces! Thirty sesterces! A vile little sum. But vile little lives are engaged with them.”

  “To a hard-working shopkeeper thirty sesterces are not vile,” said Marcus. His cheeks felt hot and stiff. Julius sat back in his chair and beamed again on his friend. Then his face lost its smile and became grave.

  “We are here on a matter of importance, Marcus,” he said. “You are the tenth lawyer we have visited this morning. Gods! It is very hot today, and the stenches are richer than ever. And, we are weary.” His black eyes suddenly were amused in spite of the severity of his face. “Will you not offer us wine to refresh ourselves?”

  “You are in difficulties? I trust,” said Marcus, striking the bell on his table.

  “Always the jester,” said Julius. “No, I am in no difficulties that should concern you or fill you with solicitude. But then, have we not always loved each other dearly?”

  “Have we?” said Marcus. He kept his eyes from touching Catilina who still stood at a little distance. He said, “You have told me I am the tenth lawyer you have visited today. What? Do you find the others inadequate for your purposes?”

  “They had no information for us,” said Julius. Syrius entered silently with wine and goblets. He poured the wine and offered it first to Catilina, then to Julius, then to Marcus. The other two men drank deeply, but Marcus could not bring himself to drink with Catilina. He merely touched the rim of the goblet to his lips, then laid the vessel on the table. “What is the information you require, Julius?” he asked.

  “The matter of a will. Or possibly of a will not made,” said Julius. He glanced quickly at Catilina who was negligently sipping more wine and indicating, by his expression, that his opinion of it was not excessively appreciative.

  But Marcus’ heart had jumped violently. “Whose will?” he demanded.

  “Your taste in wine has improved, dear friend,” said Julius, refilling his goblet. He remembered, at last, to pour a little in libation. “To my patron, Jupiter,” he said in a religious voice.

  “Whose will?” cried Marcus. Catilina, like the leopard he resembled, moved closer. Again, Julius glanced at him, and now as if in warning.

  “It is a sad story,” said Julius. “I shall be brief. The will of Lucius’ wife, Livia Curius Catilina.”

  Marcus sat down abruptly. Catilina’s face became intent. Julius licked drops of wine from his lips, but his gaze tightened on Marcus.

  “You know of such a will?” he asked in a gentle tone.

  Marcus could not speak for a moment. He knew they were watching him like tigers. He knew they suspected something. He reached out a trembling hand for his goblet and he put it to his mouth and forced himself to swallow. He said at last, in the ominously sharp silence that filled the room, “I know of no such will.”

  But the two young men still gazed at him, Julius with renewed kindness, and Catilina like a soldier faced with a sudden enemy and prepared for attack.

  “You were never a liar, alas,” said Julius. “Therefore, I must believe you.” He looked at Catilina, and again the warning lit his eyes. “Is it not incredible, Lucius, that there could be a lawyer who is not a liar and a thief? Behold our Marcus. He is probity, itself, and he would not lie to us.”

  “Why should I lie?” said Marcus. “If there had been a will I should have not said, ‘I know of no such will.’ I should have said, ‘My clients’ affairs are confidential and not to be discussed.’” He felt foolish and ridiculous, a countryman and awkward.

  “So,” said Julius, and lifted another brief carelessly and scanned it. He burst out laughing. “A lady wishes to divorce her husband because he has dallied with her sister! She is certainly of a small mind, and trivial. After all, it is a family affair!”

  “Put down my briefs!” exclaimed Marcus, with sudden fury. Julius stared at him with affected surprise. “Accept my apologies, dear Marcus,” he said. “I was always curious; it is an old vice of mine.”

  “Old vices frequently kill,” said Marcus. Julius folded his arms and relaxed at ease, but his stare was hard on Marcus.

  “Not one of the other lawyers, dear friend, had been visited by Livia. Were you?”

  The question was sudden and fierce for all its quiet.

  Marcus blurted before he could restrain himself, “How could it be possible for the Lady Livia to visit me, when she is not in Rome?” A second later he was aghast.

  Again something flashed between Julius and Catilina. But it was Catilina who spoke softly. “Why should you think that? It is true that she was on one of the family farms for a time. But she returned. How did you know she had been absent?”

  “Rumor,” said Marcus.

  Catilina arched his brows in innocent wonderment. “They speak of Livia?”

  Marcus did not reply. Julius was regarding him closely, and with a faint and inscrutable smile.

  “Why should Livia be of importance to you, that you should hear of her?” said Catilina. “Did you know her?”

  Marcus wished to kill him, as he had wished before. But he said only, “I have seen her.”

  “And you have talked with her?” The patrician voice probed at him like a dagger seeking his vitals.

  “When we were children,” said Marcus. He clenched, his fists on his knee. “She was visiting in Arpinum, and she came to my paternal island.”

  “The sweet memories of children,” sighed Julius with a sentimental smirk. He saw Marcus’ emotion, and he wished to spare him further pain. “Lucius, let us go. There are other lawyers to question.”

  “I believe,” said Catilina in a cold and deadly voice, “that this lawyer with us now knows something we do not know. I desire him to tell us.”

  Marcus lifted his eyes to that beautiful face and his hatred and loathing were vivid upon it. “I have told you all I know. I have four cases before the magistrate within the hour. I must request that you leave me in peace.”

  But Catilina said relentlessly, “Did my wife visit you here?”

  Marcus got to his feet and faced his enemy. “Had she done so I should not tell you.”

  “Then she visited you,” said Catilina, and his hand stole involuntarily to his sword. “What did she say to you, Cicero?”

  “Are you threatening me, you?” cried Marcus, shaking with rage. “Do you wish another engagement, Catilina? This time I shall not withhold my hand!”

  Julius put his hand quickly and soothingly on Marcus’ arm. “Do not be reckless, and foolish, dear friend. You must forgive Catilina’s abruptness. He has suffered a gr
eat sorrow.”

  Marcus started violently. He looked from one man to the other. “Livia?” he whispered.

  “Have you not heard?” asked Julius, and now there was genuine compassion in his tone for Marcus. “The unfortunate wife of Lucius has been mad for many years, perhaps even from birth. Did she not appear strange to you, even as a maiden?”

  Marcus could hardly speak. “She is not mad. That is a lie. She was a lonely orphan, the child of young parents who had died tragically. She told me of it, when we were children together, on the two occasions I saw her at Arpinum. It is a lie,” he repeated. “Livia is not mad.”

  Julius pursed his lips in an expression of sadness. “Doubtless she told you that when her young mother died her father killed himself on his wife’s breast? Doubtless she also told you that one of her aunts also committed suicide, and her grandmother? Livia was mad. It is possible that her young son, and Lucius’, had also inherited the taint.”

  “No,” said Marcus. Then he became aware of a peculiar atmosphere in the office. It was as if something inimical had centered upon him.

  “You are no physician,” said Julius. “But Livia’s own physicians have said that she was mad.”

  “I am a lawyer,” said Marcus. He had a sudden thought. “I have known Livia. I saw her in Rome, on two occasions, both in a temple. My reputation for prudence is well known, and my considered opinion. If I were to swear that on my own knowledge Livia Curius Catilina is sane; then my word would be taken.”

  The quivering sense of danger increased about him. Catilina’s face was malign. Marcus thought: I see it now. He intends to bring a divorce action against Livia so that he need not return her dowry. He thinks to succeed in that action; he has only to swear that he will keep his former wife in quiet seclusion, and it will be enough.

  “Your concern is commendable,” said Julius, sighing. “Nevertheless, Livia had been under the care of family physicians for a long time, because of her aberrations. They will swear to her condition. In truth, they have already done so, before the praetor.”