A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Taylor Caldwell

  Wholesale massacre fell on Rome. Confused, distraught, Cicero fled the city to Astura, his island on the Bay of Antium. He who had believed in reason was overcome by unreason.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  At all times Marcus Tullius Cicero had mistrusted the excitable and enthusiastic men, the men who believed that activity and noise meant accomplishment; he had a temperamental dislike of the exuberant and the overly optimistic. To him, such were “base cheap fellows, swillings of the gutter.” A loud voice, a vehement gesture, a pair of swiftly moving legs, had repelled him. They were the marks of the vulgar. Flashing teeth and flashing eyes had caused his instant dislike. He had preferred the restrained. It was inevitable that he be revolted by Antony and attracted by Octavius. He sat in his villa at Astura and, contemplated the final ruin of his life.

  He had fled in such haste that Quintus and his son, young Quintus, had not been able to join him after the proscription of the whole Cicero family by the Committee of Three. (The Second Triumvirate had declared that Julius Caesar’s conciliatory tactics had failed, that the men Caesar had “spared” had been his deadly enemies and had finally conspired to murder him and throw the country into war, that they had proscribed not only Antony and declared him a public enemy but Octavius also—a lie which did not make the populace laugh or shout with disgust, for as always the people were excited by the thought of change and by prospects of greater public benefits if they conformed.) Quintus, who feared more for his brother than for himself, was to stay behind and hastily sell both his and his brother’s property, and join him later with young Quintus, at Astura. Fortunately, though young Marcus Cicero had been proscribed with his father he was comparatively safe in Macedonia. The son was also under the protection of Marcus Brutus, one of the murderers of Caesar. (To Cicero it was one of the mad ironies of life that Brutus should be a friend of young Octavius, and that Brutus should support one far more coldly evil and far less of a genius than the uncle.)

  Astura had never been a favorite spot to Cicero. He was to remain there only until Quintus and his nephew joined him, and then they were all to go to Macedonia—to put themselves under the sincere protection of Marcus Brutus.

  Cicero contemplated the thought of perpetual exile with an agony of mind which surpassed anything he had ever known before. He was an old man; his heart was broken. He had lost everything; at the end he had been unable to save his country. But the greatest anguish of all was the knowledge that the city of his fathers was forever closed to him, her gates forever barred, and that to attempt re-entry would mean his death. Death, of itself, meant little to him. But he longed for his city with a longing surpassing any desire for women or gold. He walked about his little villa and looked upon the murky waters of the bay, and he thought that he would lose his mind. To die in Macedonia and not to lie in the earth of home was something he could not endure to think of, even in calmer moments. He decided that when Quintus and his nephew joined him he would force them to leave him behind and not take him with them to Macedonia. He, himself, would return to Rome, to die and yet to be buried in the beloved soil.

  For life, he knew, was over for him. Even had the proscription been lifted and had all been restored to him, and even if Octavius himself had come to him and had fallen on his neck in an embrace, it would have meant nothing to him, would have stirred no pulse of pleasure or peace in his heart. He had lived only for law and for Rome. They were dead. He desired to die with them and be taken up in the whirlwind of eternal darkness and never be compelled to think or dream or hope again. Above all, never to hope again!

  Do men never think what a release it is, to be released from hope? he would ask himself. To expect nothing, to desire nothing, to await nothing: That is the only tranquillity we can ever really know. As that tranquillity can be found only in death—how wonderful is death, how desirable! The sunset is more to be loved than a sunrise, for the sunset leads to night and unreflecting sleep, but the sunrise is a liar, promising in fragrance and breeze and song all that is deceiving and all that is false and full of weariness. Oh, blessed is the man who has seen his last sunrise and gazes on his last sunset! For then shall he lay down the iron yoke on his back; then shall his limbs straighten; then shall his eyes cease from seeing; then shall all the races be run and all the tinsel prizes be broken and all desire shall be purged. He shall put aside the chains of his flesh and lift his wings and fly into the darkness, and never shall he hear the hot clangor of living again or look upon the faces of perjurers and betrayers, and never shall he know grief once more and despair. May God grant that we do not dream in that everlasting night, that our last repose is disturbed by no restlessnesses, that our ears are stopped with dust and hear no sound of the clamorous earth, and all is forgotten and all forgiven and love and fear can no longer awaken the silent eyes, and the long weeping is forever quieted.

  Sometimes he picked up his dagger and thought how easy it would be to plunge it into his exhausted heart, which beat so feebly now and with such heavy straining. But he must wait for Quintus and his nephew. Were they to arrive and find him dead, Quintus would suffer pain—Quintus, his dear and beloved brother, the playmate of his childhood, the strong and ardent boy who had saved him from death when he had caught his hand in the tree of the blessed island—which none of them would ever see again. Sweet Quintus, the unfortunate Cicero would think to himself, sweet brother! Oh, that we had died when we were children and were lying now in peace on our ancestral island with the blessed flowers on our tombs and the sacred oak mingling with our ashes! Blessed is that man who expires when he is born and never knows the hot and bitter day!

  It was almost the time of the Saturnalia. The climate of the island of Astura had never been salubrious. Now dark rains and sleet swept the villa and tore the empty trees apart so that their limbs crashed on the ground, and the gales struck the white walls so that they trembled. The waters of the bay dashed themselves with a roar on the gravel, and withdrew with roarings, and their color was ashen and the sky was gloomy. The villa had never been intended for winter use. Therefore, its floors and walls were dank with chill and cold moisture. Cicero read no more; he paced no more; he did not ask the slaves to fill the braziers not because he had observed the new slyness and sullenness of their faces but only because he did not care or notice. He huddled in his cloak for so many hours, and was so motionless, with blankets about his feet, that the slaves would whisper hopefully to each other, “Is he dead at last, the white old fool? We know that it is in his will that we be freed on his death. May Cerberus take him, and quickly, that we may leave this vile spot and return to Rome with the money he has bequeathed us!”

  My country, Cicero would think, sunken deep in his expiring flesh, my dear country! I should have given my life to preserve you and counted it the greatest blessing of my existence. I should have given you my eyes and all I ever loved to have made you free. I should have deemed it joyous to be a slave, if slavery could have saved you. My prayers were for you; my life was lived for you; never did I betray you for money or lust or gold, no, never for a single moment. Never did I think evil of you nor was cynical concerning you, for I am flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone and heart of your heart. But now you are dead, and I must die with you, and men will forget that we have ever lived and our names will blow away in the winds of tomorrow like the ashes of a forgotten funeral pyre. I am nothing; I hope that men will never know I lived. But how can men forget Rome?

  “He still lives,” complained the shivering slaves to each other. They ate well. Cicero demanded nothing of them. Therefore, they rarely brought food to him where he sat at the window facing the sea and watched for his brother and his nephew. He was not aware that he ate or did not eat. Day and night were all one for him. Only the sight of a sail could make him lift his head and stir in his chair.

  No word came to this isolated spot from Rome, though it was not very far from the city. No courier came, no messenger, no news. The winds blew and the bitter rains and the w
aters threatened the little villa—and all was gray and cold and lifeless. “Shall we kill him, ourselves?” asked the freedman, Philologus, whom Cicero had freed as a youth and had educated with the utmost affection and kindness, and to whom he paid a large wage. “Then when his brother comes we can say, ‘Alas, he died by his own hand in the darkness of the night.’”

  The slaves meditated on this eagerly. But they were afraid of Quintus’ sharp eyes and his vengeance.

  It was well that no news came of Quintus or young Quintus. For, as Cicero had dreamed as a child, on a warm summer’s day, Quintus had been torn apart and murdered by brutal men, on the orders of Octavius who, though it was alleged had no reason to hate the Ciceroni, was far more ruthless in carrying out the judgment of the Triumvirate than was even Antony, himself. Young Quintus the devious and wily and treacherous, had at the last redeemed himself. He had attempted to hide his father and would not reveal his hiding place even under torture. To save his son further suffering Quintus revealed himself, and was slain with the young man, and at the last moment father and son had gazed into each other’s eyes with a passionate and renewed affection before they died in their own blood.

  One ashen twilight Cicero dozed in his chair. He suddenly heard the urgent voice of his brother in his ear: “Marcus! Leave at once for Macedonia!”

  The sick man started awake and stared about him in the roaring dusk of wind and water. “Quintus!” he cried with wildness. But there was no voice but the elements, and no movement about him. He staggered to his feet; he staggered from room to room, calling his brother in a desperate voice, and the slaves heard the slap of his boots on stone and his fall against the walls and his anguished crying. “Now he has become mad,” one of them said, laughing happily. “We shall have to endure this spot little longer!”

  Cicero, from sheer prostration and despair, fell on his bed. He was alone; he had dreamed only a dream. Nevertheless, he forced himself to think. Voices from afar were often carried to loved ones from those who held them dearly and wished them well and desired to warn them. Quintus had been thinking of him, had called him urgently in his mind. He had implored him to flee to Macedonia immediately. Therefore, he, Cicero, was in mortal danger and it was Quintus’ wish to spare him. “But I do not wish to be spared,” he cried aloud in the darkness.

  However, for Quintus’ sake he must obey his brother. He would go to Macedonia and there await Quintus and his nephew. Rousing himself, he summoned a slave and gave his orders. He would leave alone, he said. They could depart for Rome, and there consult his publisher and his lawyers, who would have certain gifts for them. The happy slaves knelt before him and he blessed them, and especially blessed Philologus who had desired to murder him. “Seek out my brother, the noble Quintus,” he said to the young man, “and tell him that I have gone before him, as he desired, to Macedonia, and await him there.”

  “Yes, he is mad,” Philologus said to his comrades that night. “He believes he has received a message from his brother, but we all know that no word has come from Rome.”

  But the next morning the seas were furiously high. The impatient Philologus then persuaded Cicero to take a shore boat along the coast around Capo Cirello, to the port of Gaeta near his villa at Formiae, where he could at once take a ship to Macedonia. So the distraught and frantic man did as advised, and was sorely seasick and overcome. Arriving at Gaeta and then at his villa in Formiae, he was greeted by a handful of angry and sulking slaves, who had not expected him and who had determined to abandon the proscribed Ciceroni and return to Rome, themselves, as lawless adventurers. Philologus, who had accompanied Cicero at the latter’s pathetic request, he believing even now that humanity was capable of disinterested love, helped his master to bed and whispered jeering and malicious tales of Cicero’s madness to the slaves, and promised them that their lord would soon be dead. “If you flee before he has expired, you will inherit nothing from him,” said Philologus. “I know his brother Quintus too well!” He added, “Cicero will not live to reach Macedonia, for which he sails tomorrow. His sands have run out.”

  Cicero lay on his bed in his villa at Formiae, and the long darkness of the winter night closed down. He was conscious of cold, coldness in his bones, in his flesh, in his heart. He was weary of flight. He could not bring himself to think of tomorrow and the journey to Macedonia. His very eyelids were iron. He fell into a prostrated sleep.

  He did not know when he first became conscious of light and warmth, a light more brilliant than the sun, but softer, a light more gold and all-enveloping, a light that was tender and that caressed his icy flesh and warmed it to new life. He gazed at it eagerly, asking himself no questions. He wished only to bask in this sweetness and light and glory. He saw nothing, and then, without alarm he indeed saw something.

  Slowly the shining and golden light parted like a curtain and from between pulsating folds a hand was extended, the hand of a man, firm and young, expressing love in its every curve, in its upturned palm, in its beckoning fingers. It was at once the hand of a youth and a father, cherishing, reaching, protecting. Seeing it, Cicero’s whole heart rose up in him in yearning and joy and humility. And then he heard a voice that appeared to touch the uttermost stars:

  “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.”

  The light faded and the hand withdrew, and yet Cicero was no longer cold, no longer abandoned, no longer distraught. He fell into a sweet sleep and rested like a child, his cheek on his palm, sleeping as an infant sleeps with trust and fearlessness.

  The next morning he arose and the slaves were astonished at the life in his face and the look of determination. “I shall sail for Macedonia today,” he said. They were disheartened. Nevertheless, they prepared him. The seas were higher than the day before. But a vessel for Macedonia stood in the shipping lanes and Cicero’s boat, rowed by some sturdy slaves, went toward it. The waves rose higher. Cicero sighed. “We must return to the viila,” he said. “Tomorrow, it may be more felicitous.”

  It is Plutarch who gives the most eloquent account of the last day of the head of the house of Ciceroni:

  “There was at Gaeta a chapel of Apollo, not far from the sea, from which a flock of crows rose screaming, and made toward Cicero’s vessel as it rowed to land, and alighting on both sides of the yardarm some crows kept cawing and others pecked at the ends of the ropes. This was looked upon by all on board as an omen of evil. Cicero landed, and entering his house lay down upon his bed to take some rest. Many of the crows settled about the window, making a dismal cawing. One of them alighted upon the bed where Cicero lay covered, and with its beak tried little by little to draw the cover from his face. His servants, seeing this, blamed themselves that they should stay to see their master slain and do nothing in his defense, while the brute creatures came to help take care of him in his undeserved troubles. Therefore, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they took him up and carried him in his litter toward the sea.

  “But in the meantime the assassins were come, Herennius a centurion, and Popillius a tribune, whom Cicero had formerly defended when prosecuted for the murder of his father. Soldiers were with them. Finding the doors of the villa locked they broke them open. When Cicero did not appear, and those in the house said they did not know where he was, it is stated that a young man to whom Cicero had given a liberal education, an emancipated slave of his brother, Quintus, named Philologus, informed the tribune that the litter was on its way to the sea through the dark wood. The tribune, taking a few men with him, hurried to the place where he was to come out, while Herennius ran down the path after him. Cicero saw him running and commanded his servants to set down the litter. Then stroking his chin, as he used to do with his left hand, he looked steadfastly upon his murderers, his person cover
ed with dust, his hair untrimmed, his face haggard. So most of those that stood by covered their faces while Herennius slew him. He had thrust out his head from the litter and Herennius cut it off. Then by Antony’s command he cut off his hands also, by which the Philippics had been written.

  “When these members were brought to Rome, Antony was holding an Assembly for the choice of public officers, and when he heard the news and saw the head and the hands he cried out, ‘Now let there be an end of our proscriptions!’ He commanded the head and the hands to be fastened up over the rostra, where the orators spoke, a sight which the Roman people shuddered to behold, and they believed they saw there, not the face of Cicero, but the image of Antony’s own soul.”

  Cicero’s mutilated body was hastily buried where he had been assassinated.

  The freedman, Philologus, was thrown the amulet of Aurelia, Caesar’s mother, which he saw was of gold, and so very valuable, though he did not know the giver. He hung it, laughing, about his brown neck. But when he was also given the ancient old cross of silver which an Egyptian had given Cicero, he shrank from’ it with horror and threw it from him with a cry of execration and loathing. It was an act whose irony Cicero would have appreciated.

  It is said that Fulvia, Clodius’ widow, maliciously drove a pin through Cicero’s dead tongue, the heroic tongue which had defended Rome so valiantly, and had always striven to speak of justice and law and mercy and God and country.

  His ghostly dead face stared at the city he had so loved, and the eyes did not blink. They contemplated all that was lost until the flesh fell from the bones and only the skull remained. Finally a soldier knocked the skull from its post and kicked the shattered bones aside.