A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Taylor Caldwell

Any resemblance between the Republics of Rome and the United States of America is purely historical, as is the similarity of ancient Rome to the modern world.

The histories of the Roman Republic and the United States of America are oddly parallel, such as Cincinnatus, “the father of his country,” strangely like George Washington.

The Pax Romana, conceived in a spirit of peace and conciliation and world law, is mysteriously like the United Nations of today.

For, as Cicero said, and Aristotle first of all, “those nations who ignore history are doomed to repeat its tragedies.”

He never recovered from being a rational man in a most irrational world, and this too is the fate of all moderates.

While hundreds of histories about Cicero, Caesar, Mark Antony, Crassus, Clodius, Catilina, et. al., are available in libraries in English and many other languages, and thousands of writers quote Cicero’s letters, and thousands of politicians, I translated many hundreds of letters to-and-from Cicero and his editor and publisher, Atticus, myself in the Vatican Library in April 1947, and many more from Cicero to his brother, wife, son, daughter, Caesar, Pompey, and other people, in 1962 while again in Rome, and in Greece.

We also studied, in Roman libraries, ancient Roman authorities as to the physical appearance of the great city at the time of Cicero. All this was in the interest of authenticity. The description of the Acropolis of Athens and in particular the description of the majestic Parthenon are authentic, for not only did we spend many days among the ruins but consulted archeologists in Greece when we were guests of the Greek government in 1962.

He heard footsteps and winced again. His father was approaching the bedroom, and his father was an “old” Roman.

“The Jews, incidentally, are imminently expecting a Savior. The Jews are a very mysterious people. They believe that man was originally perfect as God intended, and unacquainted with death and evil, but that by his own will he fell from perfection and into the power of evil and death. I find this very unbelievable and mystical. In any event, they expect their Savior to make clear to them the whole of God’s will with regard to mankind, and all His Law, so that never again can they go astray. It is written in their strange books, which they study unremittingly. They also believe that man’s soul is immortal, not to wander after death in pale shadowiness in some Plutonian underworld, but to be conveyed by the Savior, or the Messias, as they call Him, into bright and eternal Isles of Bliss.

And the body, they say, will on the last day be joined to its soul and the whole apparatus delivered intact into their heaven.

I found the conception very entertaining. Their God is not gay and beautiful as are our gods. He seems...

“I am Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said Marcus. He could not look away from this entrancing creature, and stared openly.

Years later Marcus wrote of the Caesares: “They will be remembered as great, yet no one will be completely certain in what their greatness lies. I believe I have solved the riddle: They loved no one but themselves. At no time did they forget their duty to themselves, or their own advantage. By this magic they convinced every man that the Caesares were uncommon men, indeed, and deserved honor and love.”* To the powerful, the Caesares were flattering, deferential, sincerely devoted, self-sacrificing, loyal, eagerly serving. To their equals they were kind and considerate, but faintly aloof; always, they were agreeable and entertained well, rarely engaging in argument, agreeing even when they secretly disagreed, gracious, hypocritical, not opinionated in speech, dishonest, charming, totally insincere but flexible, open to gossip which they could turn to their advantage, but speaking admiringly of friends and neighbors.

To their inferiors—who loved them most—they were cold and demanding and arrogant, impressing upon them the mighty superiority of the family, making each man believe that a mere condescending word from the Caesares was a favor equal to a favor for the gods, themselves. The powerful, then, advanced the fortunes of the family, for the powerful love sycophants; the equals wished to reward them for their kindness; the inferiors wished only to serve ones so noble and so above ordinary mankind.

Marcus rose slowly, and Julius seized him by the upper arms in a buoyant embrace, and kissed his cheek affectionately. “My dear Marcus!” he exclaimed. “I never see you without joy and pleasure!” “And I never see you without amazement,” said Marcus. Julius laughed heartily and struck him on his shoulder; he gave Marcus a sly wink. Julius, though not of notable height, yet gave the impression of grandeur in his snowy toga, his golden armlets set with many gems, his jeweled and fringed golden Egyptian necklace, his glittering rings, his golden girdle and shoes. His gay black eyes, wanton and ancient, sparkled as if at a huge jest. His aspect, as always, was dissolute and depraved yet curiously buoyant and joyously youthful. He wound his arm through that of Marcus, and turned to Sulla. “Lord,” he said, “I have learned more wisdom from our Marcus than from all the tutors who afflicted me. He was my childhood mentor.”

He sighed, and moved irritably in his chair. “Consider Rome. The populace is no longer of the order of the old Romans. Many are composed of the sons and the grandsons of those who were once slaves. They are people of a multitude of alien races and religions, a polyglot tribe. What do they know of the Founding Fathers of Rome, of our traditions and institutions, and our Constitution, and our inheritance? There is no pride in the mobs of Rome, no understanding of the history of Rome. What few old Romans remain are in the minority, and they were hated by Marius, Cinna, and Carbo, for their virtues were a reproach. Have you forgotten, Cicero, the endless massacres which took place in this city while I was in exile? Only the gods preserved

One day on the Appian Way Milo’s men were assaulted by the rabble of Clodius and during the ensuing and disordered battle Clodius was slain.

Caesar was now in Egypt to destroy the remnants of Pompey’s legions. The young Pharaoh there had joined his own army with the latter and was fighting Caesar in an effort to expel him “from our sacred soil.” There was more than a rumor that the aging Caesar was embroiled in a love-intrigue with the sister of Ptolemy, young Cleopatra, whose reputation for extraordinary beauty had reached Rome long ago. She had joined with Caesar for more than love, however; she wished to destroy her brother and assume his throne as queen of Egypt.

He had defeated Ptolemy’s armies in Alexandria; he had elevated his mistress, the beauteous Cleopatra, to the throne of Egypt, and had begotten a son by her. His energy seemed boundless; he was everywhere and anywhere.

Brutus regarded him with contempt. “Your age speaks, not your spirit. Do you know what Caesar has also said? That he wishes his nephew, Octavius, ‘to follow in my steps and sit where I sit and serve his country.’ What does that mean? That Caesar is determined to have the crown, and, like a pasha, an emperor, let it descend to young Octavius.”

He had reached the supreme point in his life. His friends had assured him only yesterday that the crown would again be offered him in the Senate, and that this time he must accept it. The hour had come. By sunset he would be Imperator, the first emperor of Rome. His beloved, Cleopatra, in his villa in the suburbs, was with his son, Caesarion. He regretted that it was not to Caesarion that the crown would descend, but to Octavius his nephew. He thought of his unacknowledged son, Marcus Brutus, of the gloomy brows and the narrow and strenuous nature. But Octavius, the fair and haughty, was a worthy heir, a true prince.

He was also a soldier of considerable fame, for all his youth. Julius smiled and waved to the people and his legion marched beside his litter and the March sun shone on helmets and on the wet streets and the burning roofs of Rome. The hour had come.

Then he saw upraised and reddened daggers, flashing in the light of the sun. He heard exclamations, ferocious and victorious. Quintus caught his arm again to hold him, but with new strength Cicero fought him off and pressed onward, and there was a bulk of salt in his throat and mist before his eyes. His limbs were heavy; it seemed he moved marble to approach the spot where he had last seen Julius among his friends. Now an awful uproar was about him, like thunder, and screams and shouts. He was jostled; he staggered. Men were wrestling, grasping each other, panting, their eyes gleaming like the eyes of wild beasts.

Cicero reached the spot he had struggled to gain. Julius Caesar was lying on the white stones; he had covered his body with his cloak. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds. And he, dying, was staring up at those who had assassinated him. But then his clouding eyes sought the face of but one, and he said in a faint breath, “And you, Brutus.” He died at the foot of the statue of Pompey.

Brutus cried aloud, “So perishes the tyrant!” and his bloody dagger was raised high and exultantly. Cicero fell against a column, smothered and half-fainting. At his feet lay Julius, whose eyes had closed. Cicero dropped to his knees beside the dead man. Gently, he moved aside the cloak which half-concealed the face of the victim. All sound receded from him, and he and Julius were alone, and they were children again. He did n...

Had Quintus known that this would happen today, on the Ides of March?

Antony was now Consul of Rome, and all his acts were conciliatory. “Above all, we must have order, for we are the people of the law.” Antony put into law decrees which he said were the will of Caesar, but Cicero, broken of heart, told friends that the “decrees” were forged. The old enmity between the two men was renewed freshly, and Antony vowed to his followers that this old man must be destroyed, one way or another.