A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

  Marcus loved his father, yet he was annoyed at his innocence and annoyed with himself for his own annoyance. It came to him again, as it did too often for his comfort of mind, that man lived alone in his own sad, dread loneliness, and no other could enter into it with him and warm him from his cold predicament. He was closer in temperament to his father than to his mother or brother; it was possible that the very similarity of nature, the very awareness that there was some of his father reflected in himself, aroused his irritability. Both were inclined to compromise, to seek the middle way, and Marcus deplored the fact even if it were often wise.

  Marcus might have hesitated about marrying had not his dear young friend, Julius, called upon him in his usual state of gay exuberance and affection. “Ah, how I have missed you, these nearly three years!” cried Julius, embracing him heartily and then holding him off to examine Marcus’ face. “You have recovered, thanks be to the gods! I have sacrificed to Jupiter, my divine patron, on many occasions for you, Carissime.”

  “I doubt it,” said Marcus. “To whom did you give that ring?”

  “To a lady.”

  “I doubt it,” said Marcus. “I hope you warned your friend that some day I shall meet him sword to sword.”

  “A gladiator!” exclaimed Julius, clapping him on his shoulder. With a silken swish of garments he flung himself into one of Helvia’s solid wooden chairs and beamed.

  “I am serious,” said Marcus.

  “I doubt it,” mocked Julius. “But what is all this about rings? Tell me of Greece, and the ladies of Greece.”

  “I met very interesting people,” said Marcus.

  Julius grimaced. “And philosophized with them.”

  “That was my purpose.”

  “No banquets, no revels with the nymphs?”

  “The ladies of Greece are very satirical.”

  Julius kissed his bunched fingers and tossed the kiss into the air. “Ah, I love ladies who are satirical! There are only two kinds of women in Rome, the stolid lumps of lard and the lascivious. No wit, no sparkle.”

  “Which is Cornelia?”

  Julius’ face changed. “I endure,” he said. “I honor her. But tell me, did you not enjoy yourself, did you not feel the wine of Greece and youth run through those austere veins?”

  “Sometimes. But I prefer not to talk of bedrooms. How is your daughter?”

  Julius’ face became tender but whether or not this was sincere Marcus could not tell. “She flourishes like the rose! I am already thinking of a husband for her, though she is still but a child. But let us speak of you again, my dear friend. Rome was lesser for your absence. There is no lawyer like you.”

  “What have you been doing, Julius?”

  “I told you before! I am no longer interested in politics. I live, enjoy, laugh, love, sing—and do not avoid those bedrooms you mentioned. Is that not enough?”

  “I do not believe a word you are saying. What have you been plotting?”

  Julius sighed. “I plot nothing. You have always had the direst opinion of me. I am a man of peace, except for my yearly services in the legions.” He stared at Marcus with his brilliant black eyes but as always those eyes, in their pretense of candor and openness and simplicity, hid many murky things. He said, “Your house on the Palatine is very handsome and elaborate. You have become luxurious. Do you know that your neighbor is now Catilina?”

  Marcus frowned. Julius grinned. “He bought land near yours; he, too, is building a new house, not so fine as yours. Aurelia’s investments have not yielded much lately. Her fortune is still large, but apparently not so large as Cicero’s.” He peered at Marcus inquisitively but Marcus did not rise to the provocation.

  Julius, watching him closely, drank some wine and said boyishly, “Ah, this is excellent! How your taste has improved since you sojourned in Greece! Moreover, you have a polished manner. I observe your clothing. It has distinction. It no longer serves merely to cover you. It has style and grace.”

  Julius drank again. Then he looked into the depths of the goblet. “I hear a rumor which I trust is absurd. I have heard that you are to marry Terentia.”

  “What is wrong with Terentia?” asked Marcus.

  “She is not the wife for you, in your new state, O Bacchus! You have not seen her?”

  “Only when she was a very young child. She seemed fair and amiable enough.”

  “A woman is not a child. She is not a beauty; she has no enticements. I do not say that she is a Hecate, or a Gorgon. She speaks very softly. I do not trust women who have soft voices and rarely laugh, especially if their faces are too composed and too knowledgeable. Her air is mild; it conceals granite. She is also uncomfortably shrewd. As she has influence in the city she is much admired by ambitious men. There is not a day that her litter does not go to the Forum, for visits to the counting houses and the banks and the brokers.”

  “Aurelia Catilina does that also.”

  “But with what a difference! Aurelia has solid knowledge of affairs also, but you must admit that she is a desirable woman, of warm flesh and warm breasts and extreme beauty. Aurelia arrays herself like a goddess, with silks and brocades and velvets and furs, and is always scented provocatively. Terentia dresses soberly, wears few jewels, no perfumes, and her hands are large and knotted, like a man’s. This contradicts the mildness and modesty of her countenance. Never marry a woman with masculine hands. Others, though admiring her mind and her astuteness, have not sought to marry her, an old maiden in her twenties, far beyond the marriageable age. There must be a reason.”

  “She is patrician.”

  “Is that everything?” cried Julius, who loved only aristocrats. “When one is in bed with a woman one desires soft limbs and palpitating breasts and rounded arms. Terentia has none of these.”

  “How do you know? Have you been in bed with her?”

  “The gods forbid!” said Julius, with horror. “I hear she is still a virgin, at her age!”

  “Your description of her convinces me she will be an excellent wife and mother.”

  Now to Marcus’ astonishment and curiosity Julius put down his goblet and became very serious. “Do not marry her, Marcus. She will make you wretched. She is virtuous and has character. A man needs more than that. He needs laughter and sweetness. He needs a woman who is at once a mother, a companion, a dear sister, a shy nymph, a concubine, a mystery, a woman of gentleness and delicious surrender. I can imagine what Terentia will be as a wife! It is rumored she has a violent temper and unwomanly ambition. Will you be less wise than other young men, who respect her but avoid her except when she can advance them?”

  “In short, it is your great concern that I do not marry Terentia.”

  “Do I not love you?” cried Julius, slapping his hand on the table. “Do you wish me to contemplate you as a harried and frightened husband? Pomponia, the wife of your unfortunate brother, is a veritable Leda compared with her, yet she is famous for her temper and her rude manners. I fear for you.”

  “I am overcome by your solicitude,” said Marcus. “But you must tell me the real reason for your aversion.”

  “Oh gods!” said Julius, raising his eyes imploringly. “You will be the most pitied man in Rome if you marry her. It is true that in her youth she still possesses the fresh attributes of youth. But in a few years she will be a dragon. She will haunt you as Juno haunts Jupiter, my unfortunate patron. You will never be able to indulge yourself with more enticing women.”

  “I intend to be a virtuous and faithful husband.”

  “Excellent. Except that virtue and fidelity should be a man’s own choice, and not forced on him by an exigent wife. You will be found creeping fearfully in alleys and conducting secret delights in the utmost fear and secrecy.”

  Marcus smiled. “Can you imagine me a furtive husband?”

  “You will be compelled to be furtive out of self-defense. Terentia will busy herself with all your affairs. She will give you sharp advice and strongly upbraid you if you ignore it. She wi
ll know all that you do. She is domineering and penurious. She will decide your friends. Your children will be hers, not yours. You will be a veritable slave to her whims. She will soon convince you that you are a fool.”

  “Is there someone else, dear to you, who wishes to marry her?”

  “No! None will have her, for all her virtues and her money and her family. They are more perceptive than you, Marcus.”

  “You must let me decide. I will keep all you have told me in my mind, and judge for myself.”

  “I foretell disaster, from which I would save you.” Julius paused. “Have you seen her sister, Fabia, the Vestal Virgin, in whose prayers I bask?”

  “No, but I understand she is very beautiful.”

  “Yes. Though her hair was cut off when she was initiated into the sacred virginal rites, it has grown again. We have, happily, now permitted this in contradiction to earlier and more severe days. Her hair is like the shower which embraced Danae. Her pure face defies my poor descriptive powers. Her nature is as sweet as balm. But I must not speak so,” said Julius, his black eyes sparkling, “for are not the Vestals sacred and is it not blasphemous to speak of them in terms which one might apply to other women?”

  “So,” said Marcus. “Moreover, a Vestal caught in unchastity is buried alive, and her lover beheaded at the very least. What has this to do with Terentia?”

  But Julius was watching him closely. After a moment he appeared satisfied and relieved, which puzzled Marcus. Julius said, “When you see Fabia you will discover such a contrast with her sister that you will not consider marriage.”

  Marcus smiled impatiently. “Let us not discuss my affairs, dear young friend. I am sorry that you failed in your prosecutions of the Senatorial governors, Cornelius Donnabella and C. Antonius for extortion in Macedonia and Greece.”

  “Ah, well,” said Julius, appearing diverted and cast-down. “I do not have your gift for forensic passion. That is why I intend to go to Rhodes to study rhetoric under Molon. Unless, of course, we do not have a third Mithridatic war.” He stood up.

  “You will find Rhodes very beautiful,” said Marcus. The two friends embraced again. Before leaving, Julius said, “I pray that you will not marry Terentia.”

  This conversation was one force that determined Marcus to marry his mother’s choice. The next was brought about by the death of old Archias, Marcus’ beloved tutor. They had not seen each other for a long time, though they had corresponded when Marcus was in Greece and Rhodes and Asia Minor. Even before then, they had encountered each other infrequently. Nevertheless, Marcus had felt that the old Greek poet was a fixture in his life, a statue in a hall he did not visit often, but which was recalled lovingly and regularly. Now that statue in the hall of his mind had fallen into rubble and was no longer part of his existence. No matter how crowded that spiritual corridor would become in the future there would be one face and figure forever missing. Marcus was impressed with a sense of bereaving time, with a sense of rapidly passing years and the impermanence of living. If he did not marry and have sons there would be nothing of him to remain for the future.

  Julius said to Catilina in the latter’s house, “Let us go far into your gardens so we may converse where the lovely Aurelia will not hear us.”

  They went into the warm gardens under the yellow moon, and found a secluded spot in a grotto. The moonlight was like poured honey and in it Catilina was so handsome that Julius marveled again that the other man seemed so unaware of his masculine beauty and dangerous charm. Catilina had passed his thirty-fourth birthday; he still appeared like Adonis, timeless, virile with youth and passion. The light from the sky glowed in his blue eyes, brilliant and alert; his profile had imperial majesty, though the lines about his mouth were depraved. He is like Hyacinth, who has become a pimp, thought Julius with a small envy for that extraordinary face and magnificent body.

  There were times when Julius wondered uneasily, after his conversations with his friend, if the madness that had been Livia’s had not been inherited by her distant relative, her husband, also. Certainly there was very often a light in Catilina’s eyes which was not quite sane, and often, in spite of his cold detachment, he was given to bursts of fury. His voice never lost its hard contempt for everything and everybody, even when he was amused or most beguiling.

  “Have you persuaded Chick-pea to relinquish the fair Terentia?” asked Lucius.

  “Unfortunately, no. Your wife, Aurelia, has failed also in her counseling of Terentia, and her hints that Cicero is impotent or lacks true virility and that he has secret, unspeakable vices, and that he is not so rich as rumored, and is of base family, and a dull temperament. Terentia is obstinate; she is not very young.”

  Lucius said with scorn and quick anger, “Aurelia, herself, is becoming curious about my insistence that she must induce her friend not to marry the Vetch. I have convinced her so far that it is because of my immortal hatred for him.”

  “If he marries her”—and now Julius dropped his voice to a whisper—“it is more than possible that he will discover your infatuation for Fabia. Deprecate him if you will; he is subtle and discerning. I beg of you to relinquish the pursuit of Fabia. It is more than dangerous, more than calamitous. The girl has not yet yielded, you have told me. How unfortunate it is that our later laws now permit the Vestals to appear in public only partially veiled and to attend the games even if in a secluded box! Our future is too valuable to jeopardize. You will drag down your friends with you, for even today Romans will not suffer the desecration of the Vestal Virgins.”

  Lucius smiled coldly. “Yet I have seen you gazing at Fabia with lustful eyes.”

  Julius lifted his hands and dropped them. “It is permitted a man to look upon a woman, even if she is a Vestal Virgin. If evil comes to Fabia, or even fulfilled joy in your arms, then she will inevitably confide in Terentia, who is known for her rigid virtue. She would not spare the man responsible for the deflowering of Fabia, even if that meant the destruction of Fabia, herself. Or Cicero will discover the crime, and tell his wife, for he, too, would be horrified beyond expression. That is what you have always feared, is it not?”

  “True.” Lucius rose and began to pace the warm and scented grass of summer. He said, in a low voice, “I still insist he must die, if necessary, to prevent that marriage.”

  “Do not weary me again with your arguments, which have continued over the years. What is a woman, even one so lovely as Fabia? Are we men, or youths enthralled by restless passions? We have too much at stake to endanger it. I beg of you to halt your pursuit of Fabia.”

  “For one who has a legion of beautiful women you are strangely virtuous now,” said Lucius.

  “None is a Vestal Virgin. None is threatened by a terrible public death if discovered in delicto. Who threatens you? All of Rome, for though few Romans believe any longer in the gods, all believe in the sanctity of the Vestal Virgins. I beseech you, forget Fabia, if not for your sake for hers, and the sake of your friends.”

  “No,” said Lucius, and shook his head over and over. “Never have I so loved and adored a woman as I do Fabia! She is in my blood, my heart, my organs, my brain, all my thoughts. I am beset. I am undone. I must have her, or I must die.”

  Julius stared at him reflectively. He thought, that would not be a very bad idea. Regretfully, however, Julius shook his head to himself. Catilina was most valuable. His following in Rome was too important, too tremendous, among the wicked and secret mobs of the subterranean world of Rome.

  Catilina turned on him so suddenly and with such a flare on his face that Julius was alarmed. It was as if Lucius had read his dark thoughts. “Well?” said Lucius. “Are we to move, ever? The years go by and we accomplish nothing. Even you failed in your prosecutions of the Senatorial governors. The success of such a prosecution was to establish ourselves in public opinion. I am weary of all your patience! Let us strike and have done with it.”

  “Were the pyramids and the Acropolis of Athens built in a day, or the hanging g
ardens of Babylon, or the lighthouse of Alexandria, or the nation of Rome? What we propose is too enormous, too tremendous, for hasty action. Forget Fabia.”

  “Never,” said Lucius.

  Julius sighed and stood up. “I can only implore Jupiter that he defeat you.”

  “I can only implore you to permit the death of Chick-pea.”

  “Let us change the subject. I am alarmed at the indiscretion of Curius. He has threatened his mistress, Fulvia, that if she does not remain faithful to him he will revenge himself upon her, ‘when some great thing will have happened.’ Fulvia is a very clever woman. Curius drinks too heavily. It is possible that in her arms he may reveal that which will lead to our executions. He is more to be feared than Cicero. He is your relative, the distant cousin of your dead wife, Livia. Talk to him sternly. I warn you that this is of the utmost importance.”

  “Chick-pea must die, before he marries Terentia.”

  “No,” said Julius. “If he dies, I will have my revenge also.”

  Julius left him then. He looked back once. Lucius was staring after him with a black and enraged expression.

  Helvia and her son, Marcus, went to the large but modest home of Terentia, where she lived with her relatives, her guardians. “You must make a good impression immediately. It is fortunate that Terentia looks upon me even now as a mother. It is not true that she has not been sought, as that lively Julius has told you. Your grandfather would have approved of her.”

  “And, my father?”

  Helvia smiled in the shadowy confines of the litter. “She intimidates him. He once told me that she resembles me. Am I so formidable?”

  Marcus kissed his mother’s cheek. “If she resembles you, my mother, then she has already won my heart.”