A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Taylor Caldwell

  “You have not talked so to me before like this, Cicero,” said Servius.

  “I have never advised you to come bare-handed into the presence of your enemies, lord. We cannot come before them like children, pattering and babbling. Again, I implore you to remember your grandsons.”

  It wounded his soul when the old soldier tried to peer at him from his eyeless sockets. “Lord,” he said, sadly, “I am not speaking to you with guile, I swear to you. Did Horatius and his friends stand unarmed upon the bridge they defended? No. You are a soldier. You must meet the enemy on his own ground, and bear the arms he himself bears.”

  “I shall never be happy again,” said the old soldier.

  “When your grandsons sit upon your knee, lord, you will be happy,” said Marcus.

  “I would, almost, that they die,” said Servius, “before this day.”

  “Then Rome would be the poorer.”

  Servius tried to see him again. “Would your grandfather have advised me as you have done, Cicero?”

  Marcus hesitated. At last he said, “I swear to you, lord, I do not know. Do not press me. Think of your grandsons.”

  “But at what a price I must buy their lives!”

  Marcus left the old soldier in a gloomy state of mind. That night he went to his parents’ chamber and told them all. Helvia’s face became brooding, but to Marcus’ astonishment Tullius began to laugh, at first faintly, and then with huge, gathering mirth. Helvia was amazed, and so was Marcus.

  “I think it’s a marvelous comedy!” exclaimed Tullius. “Ah, Marcus, do not be like the lawyer, Strepsiades in Aristophanes’ play, who, when shown a map and observing a dot upon it which his tutor said was Athens, replied in bewilderment, ‘It cannot be! There are not, to my observation, any courts in session there!’ There is no integrity in session in the Senate in these days, my son.”

  Helvia looked with pride at her husband, and smiled upon her son. “Your father has put it well, Marcus.”

  Encouraged and excited by his wife’s admiration, Tullius added, “Were this an occasion when a point of just law is to be argued, then I should urge you argue your cause upon it, and then leave it in the hands of the gods. But how can gods prevail when men choose evil in their government?”

  Sulla, alone the night before that session of the august Senate which would hear the charges against Servius, considered Marcus’ extraordinary letter, written with apparent humility. Sulla was attacked by a strange emotion. Then he, who did not believe in the gods, but only in himself, went_ to the shrine of Mars in his atrium and lighted a candle before the ferocious statue. He said, aloud, “There are soldiers who never bore a sword, and brave men who died in no battle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The wind changed to the north during the night and snow fell, white and heavy over the great city. Seeing this, Julius Caesar, riding in his fine canopied litter with Pompey, said with satisfaction, “There will be few on the streets or in the Forum this day. I fear the mob above all things.”

  “The mobs care nothing for old soldiers and their fate,” said Pompey.

  “True,” said Julius. “But Cicero cares about Servius, and even I am amazed at the influence my unwarlike friend possesses in this city. He is known as a man of honor, and even mobs respect honor—in others. Do they not salute just men on the streets, before returning to their mendicancy and their pilfering? And do they not shout imprecations upon those who share their own crimes, though in vaster degree?”

  They were disagreeably astounded as they descended in the litter to the Forum. The streets all about seethed with cloaked men whose hoods showed glimpses of intent dark faces. The soldiers directing traffic of men—for no cars or chariots or carts were permitted on the local streets or in the Forum during hours of business—were harassed and hoarse with shouting. A veritable ocean of humanity roared into the Forum; endless throngs had already gathered there, shivering and restless. The new waves pressed them closer together. Imprecations sounded furiously in the cold bright air, as each man jostled for space for his feet. Little seething battles rose here and there, when men were pushed from their places by others. Blows were struck. The vast seething pool of sombre heads contrasted vividly with the cold white pillars and columns surrounding them. Some mobs stood on the steps of temples, craning their heads toward the Senate. Some even climbed to the top of porticoes, ignoring the angry commands of soldiers. There they perched, spitting down at the warriors, and darkly grinning. The soldiers put their hands on their swords, threatening, and the men laughed. The Forum hummed like a gigantic hive of bees, a dangerous hum. The steps of the Senate were solidly packed, so that the soldiers had to stand with drawn swords making way for the litters of the Senators, whose faces revealed their consternation.

  Vendors of hot sweetmeats and little steaming meat pies and wine and sausages and roasted onions and bread simmering with garlic were dexterously moving among the enormous mob, crying their wares. Men bought eagerly, holding the hot dainties in their cold hands and eating them with relish.

  The red roofs of the city fumed as the snow upon them melted under the brilliant sun. The stones of the Forum ran with little black streams of water, in which the people stood heedlessly. The porticoes dripped; the columns were streaked with sparkling moisture. And still the people arrived, pushing in upon the Forum until it seemed that a man could not raise his arms from his sides. The air began to vibrate as if with constant thunder. The soldiers looked at each other helplessly and shrugged.

  “Gods!” exclaimed Julius, staring down at the Forum from the parted curtains of his litter.

  “Hah,” said Pompey. “So they would not be here! I did not know your Cicero was so famous.”

  The litter had halted near the base of the Palatine, for it could not, as yet, proceed onward. Julius sent a slave with a staff to try to breach that fortress of human flesh. The fortress suddenly parted. A company of men appeared on horseback, with banners. Julius stared incredulously, for the leader was no less than Roscius, the actor, himself, splendidly arrayed, and surrounded by old soldiers on magnificent steeds, veterans of many years. Running behind them on foot was a turbulent river of younger soldiers, armored and helmeted, trotting in unison, their faces harsh with determination. They carried banners and lictors, and colored streamers announcing their legion. The company on horseback swept toward the Forum, unimpeded, carrying those on foot behind them as if by a wind.

  “Roscius, and his accursed old soldiers, whom he tenderly patronizes!” cried Julius.

  “Were they ordered by Sulla to come here? Of a certainty, no. Then why have they come?”

  But Julius said, “Servius’ men. They are on furlough.”

  “Where is Sulla?” said Pompey. “When he appears, he will order them to leave at once.”

  Julius smiled grimly. “Even Sulla, especially in these days when he is not very popular with the military, will pause before exercising his right to disperse the soldiers. He will permit them to remain for all they are an embarrassment.”

  The litter tried to proceed, then was halted again. Another and more determined horde of men poured down into the Forum, well-dressed and even armed with jeweled daggers and swords. Julius peered at them. After a moment he laughed without much amusement. “I know the leader well, in that handsome litter. It is old Archias, Cicero’s former tutor, whom I met in the house of the Ciceroni many times. And this mob is his friends, and I recognize the faces of various actors whom I have seen in the theatres. And gladiators! Gods!”

  The arriving soldiers mingled with their friends already in the Forum, and the sun began to glitter on a sea of helmets and red plumes. The soldiers conferred. The earlier arrivals glanced over their cloaked shoulders uneasily. The new arrivals laughed. The banners swayed over their heads. The people roared happy approval, and clapped and stamped their feet. The atmosphere was full of the stench of bodies and wool and leather and food and garlic. The sun became brighter.

  “Where is Sulla?” a
sked Pompey.

  Said Julius cynically, “It would be less dangerous for him to be absent, than to be present.”

  Pompey was impatient. “But did your Cicero not write him a letter of capitulation and imploring his presence?”

  Julius leaned from the litter and admonished two of the leading slaves to try to force the wall of flesh again. Then he looked at Pompey and raised his eyebrows. “It is true that Cicero wrote that letter. But it was not exactly capitulation.”

  “What, then, is your explanation, O Oracle?”

  “I think,” said Julius, “that we are to enjoy a comedy.”

  Suddenly trumpets shattered the air on the rise of the Palatine Hill, and there was a thundering of imperative drums. The walls of humanity parted. Soldiers rushed down the walls and stationed themselves with drawn swords, and pressed the backs of their shoulders against the screaming mobs. Then through the corridor they had made came a pounding of hoofs and the rumbling of a chariot leading a detachment of armored horsemen. And in that chariot, alone, standing up like Jove himself, stood Lucius Cornelius Sulla, dictator of Rome, whipping his horses, his head bare to the cold sun, and clad in golden armor and golden tunic, with an embroidered scarlet cloak rippling back from his shoulders.

  Romans loved a spectacle. They had rarely seen their tyrant, with his pale and terrible eyes and his lean, ascetic face, and when they had seen him he had been clad sombrely and had moved with cold sharp dignity. But now he appeared imperial to them, bright as noonday, magnificent and heroic, and they raised their voices in a roar that echoed back from all the hills in a crash.

  Sulla did not look at those who hailed him out of sheer admiration for his appearance. He lashed his horses splendidly. He ran like a glittering wind down into the Forum, followed by gloriously arrayed officers in silver and black breastplates and helmets tossing with blue and crimson plumes, their horses white as snow.

  Julius yelled with irreverent laughter. “Roscius has a rival!” he exclaimed, as the litter slaves deftly followed in the wake of the company through the shouting and leaping hordes. Julius threw himself back on the cushions and laughed until his face dripped tears, while Pompey stared at him as one stares at a madman. When they arrived at the steps of the Senate Chamber Julius was still helpless with convulsions of mirth. His dark face was contorted; it began to turn red; a line of foam appeared at the edges of his lips. Pompey, grasping him, shook him fiercely. “Control yourself!” he cried. “Or, you will have a seizure!”

  The “sacred illness” was rarely to be halted in its manifestation by an effort of will, and Pompey was in despair. Then, incredibly, he saw Julius deliberately unclench his fists, deliberately open his mouth and breathe slowly and steadily, and deliberately fix his eyes, which had begun to turn up toward the lid. The scarlet hue of his face was replaced with pallor. The foam subsided on his lips, and he licked it away. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. Calmly, he wiped it with the back of his hands, then looked at Pompey with a moment’s bedazement. He drew quiet breath after breath, then said, “We are here.” While Pompey, who had been trembling, watched in amazement, Julius alighted from the litter and made his way to the Senate steps.

  The eager and craning mob saw Julius. They loved his gaiety; they loved and admired his youth; they listened avidly to the stories of his dissipations and his dissolute life, his pranks, his imaginative antics which appealed to the Roman sense of humor. He was a patrician, but he bled in his heart, it was said, for the Urbs, for the plebeians. If his solicitude for them was quite false the myth of it had been spread sedulously by his followers in many places. So the mob was delighted at the sight of him, and roared their joyous approval of all that they imagined he was. Julius paused gracefully on the steps of the Senate, doffed his helmet, and bowed smilingly to his admirers. Then he bounded like a very young man up the rest of the stairs and disappeared within the bronze doors. Pompey followed more slowly.

  The Senators were all gathered in the chamber, quiet and serious in their red tunics and their white togas and red boots. Their hands glittered with gems. They gazed impassively at the seat of the Consul of the People, in which Sulla, shining and resplendent, now sat. The incense before the niches of the heroes and gods smoked bluely in the sunlight that penetrated through the doors and the high narrow windows. The cold white air of winter poured in through every aperture. Now, despite the soldiers, the mob thronged the steps and even pressed through the doors, to stand restrained. Beyond them was an endless plain of restless heads and shouting mouths, to the very limits of the Forum.

  Two chairs had been placed below the Consul’s seat, chairs of fine wood with cushions of blue silk. Gravely Pompey and Julius made their way to these chairs and sat down with slow dignity and stared before them with expressions of aloof severity.

  There was a tumult again at the doors and protestations. Then surrounded by the soldiers of his legion, Servius was led into the chamber, his white head proud and high, his features calm and pale, his cratered blind eyes turned straight ahead. He wore his full armor and uniform as a captain of Rome, and he walked steadily as if he could see, guided gently at each step by the touch of a soldier’s hand. When he had reached an area before the Consul’s seat, a filial hand halted him, and he stood and faced Sulla and his face was as still as stone, and the color of it.

  Sulla regarded him in silence, this old friend of his, his comrade-in-arms, his captain. The Senators peered over each other’s shoulder to share the sight of this tragic confrontation. They looked from one face to the other, and could read nothing. Sulla’s pale eyes were shadowed; he had leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair and his hand partially obscured his mouth. A faint quivering began to run over Servius’ features. He could hear the restless mutterings of the huge mob; he could hear breathing all about him; he could smell the incense.

  Then Servius said, in a low and questioning voice, “Lucius?”

  Sulla moved, as if stricken by that word. The Senators sighed. One whispered to another, “How sorrowful for Sulla!”

  Sulla said at last, “Cato.”

  Servius smiled. He kept his face turned to his enemy while his soldiers rearranged his scarlet cloak and settled his helmet in the crook of his right arm, for he had no left one. All saw his scars, his blindness, his shattered state, and his pride. And all started when he held out his helmet to a soldier, and then struck his breast with his right fist and bent his stately head to the man he could not see, in a salute that had no fear in it and no servility.

  “Where is the advocate of the noble Captain Cato Servius?” demanded Sulla, his voice ringing in the comparative quiet of the chamber.

  “Here, lord,” answered a clear and confident voice at the doors and Marcus entered. A deep rumbling emanated from the Senators, expressive of their astonishment, for Marcus was clothed in absolute mourning and there were ashes on his forehead and he carried no rod of authority. His face was very white. He moved slowly between the ranks of the Senators and came and stood beside Servius and he gazed up into the face of Sulla.

  Sulla looked down at him and his long thin mouth twitched in anger.

  “What is this garb?” he demanded. “It is an insult to me and to the Senate.”

  “No, lord,” said Marcus, humbly. “It is a mourning for my client’s crime.”

  Sulla raised his fierce black brows. “You admit, before any trial, that your client is guilty of the crimes alleged?”

  “I am not completely familiar with the alleged crimes,” said Marcus.

  The mobs at the doors whispered this astonishing exchange to those behind them, and the message was spread.

  “By the gods, read the roll to him,” exclaimed Sulla, gesturing down to Julius who rose with majesty and spread out a scroll, holding it high.

  In a resounding voice Julius intoned, “Cato Servius, prisoner, is accused of high treason against the State, against Lucius Cornelius Sulla, of subversion, of seeking the overthrow of lawful government, of insurrection, and incit
ement to riot, of violent and extreme prejudice against the people of Rome, of contempt of society and authority, and of malice.”

  Sulla listened. The Senate listened. The soldiers and the people listened. Marcus had bowed his head at the beginning of the reading and he kept it bowed when Julius was done and had seated himself again.

  “Speak, Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said Sulla.

  Marcus slowly raised his head in the dramatic manner in which Roscius had tutored him. He lifted his hands with Roscius’ own gesture of pleading before the gods. Roscius, standing with Noë ben Joel just inside the doors, watched critically, then nodded with satisfaction.

  “I do not know of these crimes,” said Marcus, in rolling tones that reached even to many outside the doors. “But I know of a greater crime.”

  A shadow ran over Sulla’s face. He leaned back in his chair. He pursed his lips and considered Marcus. Then he looked at the Senators and at the taut soldiers and then he saw Roscius in his magnificence. His face darkened. He looked down at Marcus contemptuously.

  “Are you responsible, Cicero, for this tremendous assemblage in the Forum today? Are you so famous that such a multitude should hasten to hear you?”

  “It is said, lord, that Romans love justice before all things, and they have come to hear justice. Law is like eternal granite. It is not an airy butterfly, a creature of the idle breezes, or a wanton of the whimsies and passions and vindictiveness and envies of little men. It is the soul of Rome. The people cherish it more dearly than their lives.”