by Allan Massie
For three days they kept up their wretched supplications. For three nights our sleep was disturbed by their piteous cries. Many of us were disgusted. A soldier does not cease to have tender feelings. But Caesar was adamant. When he found that one centurion had actually been rash enough to take possession of a lovely girl, he ordered him to be flogged, and demoted to the ranks. Then the girl was whipped out of our lines to resume her starvation.
Eventually the wretched people began to slink away. Where they went, whether any escaped, I have never known. Simply, after a few days, they had vanished. No doubt they crept into the woods to die.
By this time the relieving army had invested us. Caesar later claimed that there were eight thousand cavalry and a quarter of a million infantry. That is what he reported to the Senate, but it was sheer bravado. We had no means of knowing how many they were.
I am not going to recount the battle. It was like all battles, only worse than most. Truth to tell, accounts of battles rarely make sense. No, that is not true; they make too much sense. Historians give them a shape they don't possess. They credit commanders with a degree of control that is absent. I don't advise anyone to read Caesar's account of Alesia; talk to some of the legionaries who fought in the front line instead. As for me, I recall nothing of it. Trebonius later joked that I was as drunk as Antony, but that wasn't true. I might as well admit now that my memory has been obliterate d by the fear I experienced. I had dreamed that I would die, and I very nearly did.
Eventually Vercingetorix led an attack from the town. I think he mistimed it. Half an hour earlier, before we had secured our position against the relieving army, he might have swept us away. Even so, we might have lost if the cavalry, disregarding an order from Caesar that they were to hold their ground, had not essayed an encircling movement. When the Gauls saw what was happening, many panicked and ran back into the city. It was that moment of terror which decided the day. We were able to move forward, a mass of metal, swords thrusting; we clambered over the bodies of our enemy and pursued those who still stood back into the citadel. When the gates closed against us, I knew Vercingetorix was doomed.
The next day he sent out a herald proposing terms. Caesar said he would discuss these only with Vercingetorix himself.
The Gallic leader rode out of the stronghold that had become his prison. He was mounted on a white horse. There was a sword-gash over his right eye, but he sat straight, proud as a bridegroom. When he dismounted he still stood a head higher than Caesar, who waited for him to make obeisance. The Gaul declined to do so.
He spoke in Latin, not very good Latin, but Latin all the same. He conceded victory, and asked for mercy for his troops and tribesmen. The stench of dead bodies and blood filled the air.
Without addressing his noble enemy, Caesar summoned two centurions and told them to load the Gallic chief with chains.
"Caesar does not debate with barbarians," he said, though during the years he spent in Gaul he had done so on many occasions.
Then he gave out orders. The two tribes of the Arverni and the Aedui would be spared; they should resume their position as friends of the Roman people. (This was clever: the Arverni were Vercingetorix's own tribe.)
"They have been led astray by evil counsel," Caesar said, still not deigning to address Vercingetorix himself or even to look him in the face.
All the other prisoners should be allotted to the legionaries. First, however, they should dig a pit for the dead.
Then he said to the centurions, "Take this man and keep him closely guarded."
He never spoke to Vercingetorix again. But he had a role for him. He was to be preserved to feature in Caesar's Triumph. That didn't happen for several years. Afterwards, as you know, Vercingetorix was strangled in the Mamertine prison. Vercingetorix received these insults that day with the utmost serenity. Caesar was the conqueror; but the day belonged to his defeated enemy. I felt ashamed of Caesar that night.
(Later: I gave this account to young Artixes, the son of my captor. He has spent some time in Rome, and reads Latin easily. He is a comely young man of some charm, and I believe he sincerely pities me. He is also, as it happens, on his mother's side, a cousin of Vercingetorix himself. I was interested to see how my account struck him.
Naturally some will say, reading this confession, that I wrote it in an attempt to curry favour with him. That would not have been unintelligent, but such was not my purpose. Actually I was surprised to discover while writing how strongly I felt. This is something I have noticed before, and it raises the philosophical question as to whether such writing actually alters one's feelings, whether it is not indeed an aid to insincerity. It is not a question I can answer. The truth is, as ever, complicated: we can never recapture our precise emotions, and brooding on past events is coloured by what has happened since.
"How could you follow such a man?" he said.
He has a peculiarly candid face, rather square under a shock of yellow hair.
"You never felt either his charm or his authority," I said. "Tell me, do you have any memories of your cousin?"
"Why should you care? You're a Roman, and an accomplice in his murder."
"You have read what I have written," I said. "That should explain my question.")
After the battle Caesar praised Antony and Trebonius. It did not concern me that he had no words for my own part in the action. I should have been embarrassed, to tell the truth, if he had said anything in my praise. I could see Labienus glower, however. He hated Antony whom he thought nothing but a debauchee. Perhaps it was at that moment that he began to separate himself from Caesar.
That night Antony came to my tent. He was drunk, as perhaps he had a right to be. I would have liked to have been drunk myself for another reason. I would rather not recall that visit, but for one thing he said.
"Caesar doesn't realise it yet, but Rome is now his."
I thought him absurd at the time.
He lay back on my couch, his tunic rucked up.
"Slaughter makes me randy," he said.
I suppose I smiled, as I tend to do when embarrassed.
"You look like a white mouse," he said, "a timid little white mouse."
I am naturally pale, but my hair was not white in those days, but straw-coloured. It amused Antony to make a play of words on my cognomen. Perhaps one of my ancestors was indeed an albino. I don't know. My features were always sharp, never handsome, and indeed as a child I was given the nickname "Mouse", which has remained with me. Well, Caesar means "hairy", but Caesar himself was bald, something which did embarrass him.
"Anyway," Antony said, "you don't need to worry. It's a woman I want."
He got to his feet, swaying a little, and yet, despite his drunkenness, moving with the languorous grace of a great cat. He put his hands on my shoulders as if to steady himself, and looked me hard in the face. His breath stank of wine. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.
"Little Mouse," he said, "little Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus Mouse. You don't need to look so frightened."
"I'm not frightened," I said. "I'm bored and disgusted."
"By me, Mouse?"
"Bored by you, and disgusted by what has happened today."
"Come," he said, "Vercingetorix played and lost. He's been the hell of a trouble to us. He knew the rules of the game. You can't blame Caesar for his triumph."
"I don't," I said, "I blame him for…"
I paused.
"Be careful, Mouse," Antony said. "Be careful not to speak against the General."
"Of course," I said, "one must never do that."
Caesar: warts and all. Was he ever sincere? We would have died for him, died for his smile. All those of us who were his generals and lieutenants in Gaul felt the wand of the enchanter. We all feared him also, even Antony, who pretended to fear of no man. But I have seen him reduced to stammering and blushes by a cold look from Caesar. Even Casca could be abashed by him.
The first time I saw Caesar he was emerging from my mot
her's bedroom. I was a child at the time, perhaps nine or ten. It was a summer morning and I had woken early, and being unable to sleep again, had turned towards my mother for comfort. And as I approached her door, it opened, and this young man, whom I didn't know to be Caesar, emerged, in a short tunic. He stopped and smiled, and touched my cheek with his forefinger and then took my ear between thumb and forefinger and held me at arm's length.
"So this is Mouse," he said, "little Mouse of whom I have heard such fine things. They tell me you love Greek poetry." I nodded.
"So do I, boy. We must discourse on it at some future and more propitious moment."
Then he laughed, a laugh of pure merriment, and left me. I turned and followed him out of the house, watching him tip the porter, and my eyes lingered on him as he strolled away. Crossing the courtyard he tossed his folded toga over his shoulder. I had never seen a gentleman show himself in public in such a state of undress. I know now he took pleasure in advertising his conquests. I had no idea then why he had been in our house, and I did not understand that he was my mother's lover.
Of course he cared nothing for her. She, on the other hand, adored him. When I went through to see her, it was as if I was looking on someone I had never met.
In those days Caesar had not yet won a military reputation. He was known only for his debauchery and debts. But that too I learned later. When I heard men speak of Caesar in those terms, I could not connect the man so described with the magnificent carelessness of his manner. At the age of ten I became his slave even as my mother was. It was a secret we shared and kept from everyone, especially my father: our adoration of Caesar.
Later, I overheard my uncle ask him why he had not divorced my mother.
"On account of Caesar?" my father said. "Dear boy, if every husband whom Caesar has cuckolded did that, Rome would be bereft of married couples. She is not likely to betray me with any other man. All us husbands make an exception of Caesar."
Perhaps you see now why his soldiers sang in his Triumph:
Home we bring the bald whoremonger,
Romans, lock your wives away,
All his Gallic slaves and tribute,
Went his Gallic whores to pay.
And not only Gallic whores, that's for sure. Of course on one celebrated, but never fully explained, occasion, Caesar was on the other side, as it were, of the fence.
As a young man, when serving as an aide-de-camp to Marcus Thermus, the proconsul of Asia, Caesar was despatched on a diplomatic mission to King Nicomedes of Bithynia. Nobody knows exactly what transpired there, but I have heard Cicero (admittedly an inveterate and unreliable gossip) declare that "Caesar was led by Nicomedes' attendants to the royal bedroom, where he lay on a golden couch, clad in a purple shifts Imagine that, my friends. Yes, indeed, that was how this descendant of Venus lost his virginity in Bithynia." That may be nonsense, is almost certainly embroidered. But it was widely believed. The versifier Licinius Calvus published a little squib about
The riches of Bithynia's King
Who Caesar on his bed abused.
And once when Caesar was arguing in the Senate in defence of Nicomedes' daughter Nysa, and listing his own obligations to the King, Cicero, again, shouted out in his excitable provincial manner: "Enough of that, if you please. We all know what he gave you, and what you surrendered to him in return."
And it is true that there were certain Roman merchants in Bithynia at the time, who doubtless recounted what happened there; there is no good reason to suppose that their version was all lies.
Anyway, these things were widely bruited in Rome even when I was a boy, and that made Caesar appear in a curious fashion still more dazzling. Any other man would have been overwhelmed by the shame of it. Any other man would have hid his face and shunned public life. Not Caesar. He carried it off with the same swagger with which he could confront the son of the woman from whose bed he had risen. But I have often wondered whether he set himself to achieve the reputation he did win as a ladies' man precisely because of this stain on his honour. After all, nobody objects to a man who chooses to make love to boys, but to submit to the embraces of a man older than yourself is considered dishonourable in an adult. We call such a man a pathic, and generally despise him. That's true even of the Greeks, as you can read in Plato. Incidentally, Bibulus, who shared a consulship with Caesar in 59, actually described him in an edict as "The Queen of Bithynia who once wanted to sleep with a monarch, but now wants to be one."
Well, that comes closer to the point, of course.
What I am saying may appear evasive to any reader of this memoir — if I survive to finish it, and if it survives to find a reader — but I do not think the events in which I was concerned can begin to be understood if Caesar himself, in his manifold variety, is not at least offered for understanding.
Which leaves me with the question I can't answer: was there any other reason why the disgraceful episode with King Nicomedes did him so little lasting damage?
I once, years later, asked my mother if she believed Caesar had ever really loved her. She laughed.
"Of course not, darling," she said. "I adored him, but that was quite different. I couldn't even deceive myself at the time. I knew for instance that he was carrying on another affair simultaneously, with Postumia Sulpicius — a very silly woman by the way. No, Caesar wasn't like Pompey, who, it may surprise you to know, really adored the women with whom he was engaged. Of course, there was another difference. Pompey as a young man was really beautiful. You won't believe that, looking at him now; but he was so beautiful we used to say that every woman just wanted to bite him. Caesar was, I suppose, handsome, in a cold sneering sort of way, but it wasn't his looks that won him his successes, which, by the way, included Pompey's second wife, Mucia — or was she his third, I can't remember. Anyway she was the mother of three of his children, and Pompey thought she was absolutely secure. And so she was, till Caesar came along. He used to call Caesar 'Aegisthus', you know." "Aegisthus?"
"Oh, you are slow, Mouse. Aegisthus, the lover of Clytem nestra. Mind you, this didn't stop Pompey from marrying Caesar's daughter, years later. But you know that, of course. Poor girl."
"Poor girl?"
"Well, Pompey was impotent by then, Mouse, besides being usually drunk by bedtime, they say. No, if you ask me there was only one woman that Caesar ever came close to loving, and I've never understood why."
"Who was that?"
"Servilia. Your cousin Marcus' mother." "Servilia, that dragon?"
"She may seem a dragon to you, Mouse, but she's a very clever woman. She knew how to hold Caesar. He kept returning to her."
"Well, I knew of course that they were allies, and that they'd had an affair. That was no secret. We used to make Markie weep about it when we were children. But all the same, that bore, with her constant talk about virtue and her relationship to the Gracchi. You really think he loved her?"
"Yes," my mother said, "which didn't stop her from prostituting your cousin Tertia for Caesar's delight."
Tertia was a sweet little thing, not like her mother at all. She took to drink and died young. Perhaps my mother was right after all.
And of course Cicero, I remember, uttered one of his bons mots on the subject. When Caesar arranged two or three years ago to have some confiscated estates knocked down cheap to Servilia at what was supposed to be a public auction, Cicero said:
"It was even cheaper than you think, because a third (tertia) part had been discounted."
It was rumoured, of course, that Marcus Brutus was Caesar's son. When he was a small boy, this accusation would also reduce him to tears of shame and fury. Later, he rather encouraged the notion, while professing that it was impossible. Like all people who parade their virtue, my cousin Markie is a twister, Janus-faced.
Young Artixes said to me: "You talked of his charm and authority. But all I see is a scoundrel. And I am still amazed that you could follow such a man. It was clear to us Gauls that he was a destructive force. Couldn't yo
u feel that yourself?"
"Artixes," I said, "I don't know if you have heard what Marcus Cato said."
"I don't even know who Cato was."
"You're fortunate. Anyway, he said: 'Caesar was the only sober man who ever tried to wreck the Constitution.'" "I don't understand what you mean by that." "Never mind."
"Come," I said to Artixes, seeing disappointment in his face, "let us take a stroll in the evening air, and I'll try to explain."
(The circumstances of my arrest are not, you see, at present either arduous or oppressive. I am rather well treated, in fact, and I am having to revise my notions about Gallic civilisation. It is true that such wine as they have is abominable, but my comforts are considered, and the food is tolerable. Best of all, I have a sort of wild garden in which I am permitted to walk — under supervision, of course. It descends to a river, and there are mountains across the plain. It is pleasant in the evening under the chestnut trees, with the scent of ilex in the air. And young Artixes is a charming companion; I have really grown quite fond of him.)
The evening air was soft. Birds sang. A dog barked in the village below. The laughter of girls rose towards us, and Artixes said, "What do you mean by the Constitution? This is a word I have heard Romans speak before and it always puzzles me."
"It puzzles us too," I said. "That is part of the problem. You must understand, Artixes, that years ago Rome was ruled, as your tribes are, by kings."
"Well," he said, "that's only natural. Everyone has kings, surely."
"Not exactly. Some states are what we call republics. No, don't ask me to explain, you will understand what a republic is when I have finished. But if I explain every word then we'll never get anywhere. Now the Romans were dissatisfied with their kings."
"Why?"
"Well, first, they were foreigners." "I call that feeble, to take foreigners for kings." "Perhaps it was, I don't know, it was a long time ago. Then the son of the King was a bad man." "What did he do?" "Raped a girl."
He looked at me with what I took to be dismay, lost again.
"But he was the King's son," he said. "Surely she should have been honoured to do his bidding."
