A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

  Late that night Cicero sat in his library signing the documents which would deliver Catilina’s lieutenants, now in prison, to the Tullian dungeon for execution on the morrow. The execution would be the most shameful of all: the lowering of a man into a pit where he would be seized and strangled slowly and painfully. Cicero’s hand faltered. Desperately he wished there could be an alternative. He looked at his pen and shuddered. Never before had he signed a death warrant for any man. But if Rome were to live these men must die, though all were patricians and one had, for a year, been a Consul of Rome. Which was more evil: Execution for treason or the treason itself? He sighed deeply and his signature on the warrants was hardly legible, so great was his anguish of soul.

  He had just completed the wretched task when his overseer announced the arrival of Julius Caesar. Marcus’ first impulse was to deny him an audience, for his bitterness against his old friend was extreme. Then he wearily assented, and pushed aside the warrants and looked at them briefly. It seemed to him that the edges were stained with blood.

  Caesar entered softly and gravely and with a most serious face. Marcus silently motioned to him to seat himself, and as silently he poured wine for his guest. Caesar took the goblet, and Marcus took his own. Then Caesar toasted his host. Marcus made no gesture but put the cup to his lip.

  “You are angry against me, Marcus,” said Julius. “But was it not better that I gave dissent to the proceedings than permit a too hasty decision by the Senate? History will record that Catilina was condemned only after long and judicious consideration, and with justice, and not by emotion.”

  “That was not your intention, Julius,” said Marcus, his bitterness increasing. “Tell me: In what manner did Catilina reach you and intimidate you, that you became his advocate?”

  Julius raised his black brows in astonishment. “I swear to you, Marcus, that I do not understand you! What are you implying?”

  “The truth, Julius, only the truth. No matter. You will not tell me. Why are you here?”

  Julius smiled at him affectionately. “To applaud you, Marcus, for saving Rome.”

  Now Marcus could not control himself. He lifted up the death warrants in his hand and held them high and shook them. “Look at these, Caesar! One demands the arrest and subsequent execution of Lucius Sergius Catilina! The five others order the execution, tomorrow, of his lieutenants! Six warrants, Caesar, six only. Do you not know the other names which should be now in my hand? Yours, Caesar, and Pompey’s, and Clodius’, and most probably even Crassus’! And all the others with you! All! I tell you, I should sleep better tonight, and with less agony of spirit, if your names were here also, and that I swear by my holy patroness, Pallas Athene.”

  He flung the warrants down on his table and stared at them with grim suffering. Caesar rose and put down his goblet. “You wrong us, Marcus,” he said.

  “Do I, Caesar?”

  “Yes. I have sworn to this often before.”

  “You swear a lie, and for that the gods will have their vengeance upon you.”

  Caesar fastened the jeweled pin on his shoulder which held his cloak. He gazed at Marcus in a long quiet. At last he said, “You are a good man, old friend and companion, and your heart is sore that you must do this thing, and so you speak intemperately. Enough. I forgive you, for do I not love you? Let your heart be at rest. You have saved Rome.”

  But Marcus’ wrath forced him hastily to his feet and he leaned across the table so that his face confronted Caesar’s, and he flushed crimson.

  “I did not save Rome, Caesar! No one can now save Rome, and that you know. She is doomed, Caesar, as you are doomed, and I, and a whole world with us!”

  A little later that night Julius said to Crassus: “I tell you, not only Catilina is mad. Cicero is mad also. He has saved Rome for us. He confuses the audacity and murders of Catilina with our own deliberate and intelligent decision not to oppose change, and”—here Julius smiled—“to guide it skillfully.”

  “Let us be grateful,” said Crassus. “We have seen the end of Catilina.”

  *Preamble to second oration against Catilina.

  *Fourth oration considerably condensed.

  *Actual speech of Caesar.

  *An actual recorded speech of Marcus Porcius Cato.

  *Conclusion of fourth oration.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  But it was not the end. It was only the bloody beginning.

  Catilina struck almost at once, with Manlius and his malcontents, with the rabble of envious freedmen, gladiators, runaway slaves, rascals, criminals of all kinds, and the disaffected, debtors, and treasonous. Among them, however, were Tuscan patriots whom Catilina had seduced, and these were his chosen men, for all were skilled soldiers, as were Manlius’ Etrurians. Rumor ran in affright to Rome. Catilina was on the march. There were tens of thousands of his sympathizers within the city, among them the relatives of Lentulus, who had died the shameful death in the Tullian dungeon with the other four lieutenants of Catilina.

  Madness, as Cicero had once said, had a terrible grandeur of its own which is not found among the sane, and it was this grandeur which had fascinated those who loved Catilina. Once Noë ben Joel had written Cicero from Jerusalem: “Many of the learned Jews believe that evil men are mad. But others equally learned say that the mad are evil, and are possessed of demons. So many of our holy men spend their lives casting out devils from the afflicted.” The devil that had Catilina had never been exorcised, and now it utterly seized him. Despising his followers—thousands of whom had a genuine grievance against Rome, such as war-ruined farmers and desperate freedmen and those who had involved themselves in difficulties through the moneylenders, whose interest rates had been allowed to mount beyond reason—and despising those who stood in his way to power, he had no restraints, no human compassion or mercy.

  But the old and honorable soldier, Manlius, surrounded by his veterans—who also had grievances against Rome—wrote to the general in Rome, Marcius Rex, who had been hastily commissioned by the Senate to destroy all Catilina’s and Manlius’ motley army. “My dear former brother-in-arms, Marcius,” Manlius wrote in his moving letter, “I call upon gods and men to witness that we have taken up arms not against our fatherland, or to bring danger upon others, but to protect our own persons from outrage. We are wretched and destitute. Many of us have been driven from Rome by the violence and cruelty of the moneylenders, while all have lost repute and fortune. None of us has been allowed to enjoy the protection of the law and retain our personal liberty, after being stripped of our patrimony. Your forefathers often took pity on the Roman commons and relieved their necessities by Senatorial decrees. Often the commons themselves, prompted by a desire to govern or incensed at the arrogance of the magistrates, have taken up arms and seceded from the patricians. But we ask neither for power nor for riches, but only for freedom, which no true man gives up except with his life. We implore you and the Senate to take thought of your unhappy countrymen, to restore the bulwark of the law of which the judges’ injustice has deprived us, and not to impose upon us the necessity of attacking our fellow Romans, and asking ourselves how we may sell our lives most dearly.”*

  Manlius sent this letter to Marcius Rex, who promptly took it to the Senate, who requested Cicero to meet with them. Cicero read the letter and sighed bitterly. “There is much in what Manlius has written,” he said. “Advise him to have naught to do with Catilina and to lay down his arms, and the arms of his followers.” This the Senate did, and the letter was dispatched to Manlius, who had written his own letter secretly and unknown to Catilina. He showed the Senatorial letter now to Catilina who was at first enraged against the old general for his “duplicity,” and then highly amused. “Let us begin our march at once,” he said. “I do not trust that Senate, no, not now.”

  Manlius hesitated, for he was old and tired and a Roman. “I have seen much violence and blood and death, Lucius. Let us bargain with the Senate, with the rulers of our country.”

  Th
en Catilina said with wild rage, “I have no country! I never had a country! I shall have one when I seize Rome, and then only!” Catilina was furious and elated with his own plans. His army would march on Rome, twenty thousand strong at the least, via Gaul, then crossing the Apennines through the pass of Faesulae.

  Cicero commissioned Metellus Celer, now one of the Praetors, to go at once to the Picenian territories and cross to Faesulae, take the heights with his legions, thus blocking the passage of Catilina. On the other hand Cicero sent C. Antonius Hybrida from Rome with another legion; Quintus Tullius Cicero was one of his captains prepared to face Catilina directly after he was deflected from Faesulae. At the hour of departure, Cicero embraced his brother with an anguish he could not control or conceal.

  “Do not be overcome, dear Marcus,” said Quintus, alarmed by his brother’s tears. “I feel that I shall not die at the hands of Catilina’s criminals. I shall return. But, should I not return, remember I have perished in the name of my country.”

  Catilina, a great shrewd soldier, was not overly dismayed by the fact that his march had been stopped through Faesulae. He was a strategist. He turned his army to the north valley of the Arno River, and struck toward Pistoria, in a plan to drive his way west across the Apennines to Gaul. His elation rose to the wildest heights. He had not the slightest doubt but that he would succeed. Did not the gods love the patrician and the daring and the brave and the audacious? He felt invulnerable, as if guarded by the shield of Perseus himself. He felt a veritable Hercules, whom none could conquer. There were moments when he believed that he could engage the army of Antonius alone, with his own hands, and destroy them without receiving a single wound in return. He rode back and forth along the ranks of his huge but straggling army of discontented veterans and nameless mobs armed, in hundreds of cases, only with sharpened staves or clumsy spears. He carried a blood-red Catilinii. His men looked upon his beautiful and exultant face, and terrified though they were he seemed like a god to them, beyond the power of any mortal to overthrow. His armor glittered in the winter sun. His scarlet cloak floated behind him; his helmet shone like a golden moon. Fervor and madness made an aura of light about him. The hoofs of his black horse struck fire from the stones of the valley; his shadow was long and vivid on the snow. Beyond stood the black and white mountains which, to Catilina, appeared almost at hand and hardly higher than boulders. Beyond them lay Gaul—and Rome. His voice rang like a joyous trumpet, heralding news of victory, and the ranks of his men closed and they marched with rising hearts and suddenly lost all fear and all doubt. Catilina had become the flaming Apollo to them, mounted on Pegasus, clad in armor forged by Vulcan on Olympus.

  The two armies relentlessly approached each other at midday. Antonius, the patrician, colleague of Cicero, and general, was suddenly seized with disquiet. He rode side by side with his aide, Petreius, a brave and veteran soldier, and behind them rode Petreius’ favorite captain, Quintus, in brilliant armor and with a set and valorous face. And behind the three rumbled and thundered the armored war chariots with snapping banners and lictors and fasces, across the broad plain. Antonius’ disquiet grew. Catilina had attempted to seduce him; Catilina was the enemy of Rome. Catilina must be destroyed. But Catilina was also a brother patrician and Antonius had once loved him, and their families were close friends.

  Antonius said to Petreius, “I am ashamed, but I am stricken suddenly with gout. I must retire to the rear. Do you then, dear comrade, go forward with these legions, and with Quintus at your side, and strike the first blow. I shall marshal the soldiers at your rear, and couriers will bring me your slightest hail.”

  Petreius, the burly and grizzled general, understood at once. He was also a patrician. But above all, he was a soldier. He averted his fierce eyes and said only, “Be it as you say, Antonius. I trust you will recover at once. Quintus and I will lead the attack.” He looked down the long wide plain and saw the creeping blackness of Catilina’s army, and his lips clenched together. Quintus had heard the exchange; he did not even glance at Antonius as the latter wheeled his horse about and rode to the rear, his face fixed and pale. Quintus despised his brother’s colleague. A Roman was Roman—that was all a man needed to know. He made a gesture and suddenly the silent air and the majestic countryside hammered with marching drums. To the unfortunate Antonius it seemed that he was being ignominiously and derisively drummed to the rear, and his cheeks flushed though his lips remained white. Petreius smiled grimly. It was not Quintus’ authority to sound the drums, and the following trumpets of challenge. But Petreius did not reprove him. He motioned to Quintus to ride beside him in Antonius’ place, and Quintus, in grateful pleasure, spurred up his horse.

  “If my brother were traitor to Rome, I would dispatch him with my own hand,” said Quintus. Petreius did not reply. He agreed with Quintus, but still he and Antonius were fellow patricians, and Quintus was not. But he loved valor and he reached from his own horse briefly to lay a mailed hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “We are soldiers,” he said, and it was enough for Quintus, whose strong face colored with gratification. He loved every man in the Roman army, from the charioteers to the massed legions marching behind the vehicles, from the drummers to the trumpeteers who challenged Catilina. The clamorous rumble of wheel and the shaking of the quiet and disturbed winter air by the foot soldiers excited him. It had been a long time since he had engaged in a mortal combat, and his soldier’s blood was almost unbearably stirred and his spirit rose in his breast as if with wings. He sat high in his saddle, controlled and vital, his flesh humming with life. What it was to fight for one’s country, and even to die for her! The ghosts of heroes rode with him on transparent horses, and long-silenced drums and trumpets lifted in frail jubilation like echoes above all else.

  The pale but dazzling sun searched the white earth and the black and white mountains, and struck on scarlet and gold banner and the carved sharp shadows of the two approaching armies and glittered along drawn sword and broke itself upon crested helmets and impaled itself on upheld spear and filled the hollows of the snow with blue radiance. At the left of the Roman army ran the cold and Stygian river, tumbling with pale froth in its unquiet passage. Far above the sky was the faintest and iciest azure, against which the banners were like blood. Leather creaked; weapons rattled; horses neighed, raising their red nostrils impatiently to smell the acrid scent of battle. Their breath smoked. The sun blazed on thousands of gilded shields and made little suns of them, themselves.

  Quintus was a man of single mind; subtleties of the effete—as he considered them—were for colonnades and not for a time when action was demanded. He was riding now to face a hostile army led by a madman, and as a soldier of a single mind he rejoiced to challenge the enemies of his country. Romans had fought Romans before, without and within the walls. It was sufficient for him. In his impatience to meet the foe he spurred his horse beyond the horse of Petreius, and had to rein in at the last moment. It was then that his simple heart was struck violently as with a fist of iron, and the thought came to him that he was eager to kill the man who had risked his own life to save him.

  Catilina was the avowed and condemned enemy of Rome. He desired her destruction. Nevertheless, he had been a brave man and a heroic soldier, and a devoted comrade-inarms. All at once Quintus felt violently sick. He would not quail or withhold his hand, facing Catilina, for Catilina must manifestly die. But suddenly Quintus prayed that it would not be himself who would kill Catilina, and that Catilina would fall by another’s hand. The Roman army was now descending the slope of the plain; Catilina’s army was rising on the slope. In but a little while they would strike at each other. Quintus felt the taste of salt, or blood, in his mouth and his expression, under the lifted visor of his helmet, must have been very strange for the old veteran, Petreius gave him a quick and curious glance though he said nothing. Quintus caught that glance; he lowered his visor.

  Petreius lifted his mailed hand to shade his eyes and scrutinized the approaching foe. “
It is a wretched army,” he said. “We shall defeat them easily.” He swung up his arm and the thunder of the drums and the cry of the trumpets rose to a deeper pitch and stunned the ear with sound. “Charge!” cried Petreius, and he and Quintus sprang forward on their horses, and, followed by their officers and the chariots and the mounted legion and the foot legion behind them, raced to the first shock of the attack.

  Catilina’s army halted abruptly and looked up to see the glittering wave rushing down upon them. It wavered. But it did not break. There were thousands of brave men who had known combat before among that army. They were led by brave men. Even the nondescript rabble of Rome which formed part of that army, and it was poorly equipped, felt the awful excitement of approaching death and battle. They closed their ranks tighter and rushed to meet the Roman army, and far in advance of them was Catilina on his black horse, plunging furiously before them. As if very nature joined in the vehemence the sun seemed to enlarge, to grow unbearably bright, to turn the snowy hills to white fire; the black river clamored and pounded in its icy banks.

  The shock of the wild and terrible meeting of the two armies screamed and pounded back from the mountains, and the earth quaked. Horses flung themselves against horses, man against man. Catilina had no chariots; the Roman chariots wheeled and churned and roared about the foe. Then sun splintered on flashing swords, on the whirl of spears. Men fell from saddles and stained the snow with blood. Horses shrieked in mortality. Weapons drummed on shields. Fearful faces glared from under helmets; the air was filled with shouts and groans, the scourging of iron wheels, the cracking of axles, the thud of colliding armored bodies. What had been a still and peaceful plain, divided by a river, became a bloody place of slaughter under the fierce cold sun. And the hills echoed back the overwhelming sounds as if unseen armies from Hades had joined the battle.

  Now all was one vast and flaming and bannered confusion on the plain, as swords plunged and spears struck and shields were tossed high above the lunging mass of the attacked and the attacking. Quintus saw no one but the man challenging him; one by one he disposed of each who faced him, driving him off his horse or reaching down to strike a man on foot. Sweat streamed down his face for all the intense cold of the day. His knees gripped his horse so that both his hands were free, and he directed the animal by powerful pressure only. His teeth sparkled in the ferocious light; he panted and gasped. He lost all knowledge of time, of death, of sound. One by one, as men faced him, he killed them.