by Allan Massie
"He would not care. Clodia, I have served Caesar for years. He is the most wonderful and remarkable man I am ever likely to know. Naturally, we laugh at his little vanities, and we often find him exasperating, but our mockery is exercised in self-defence. It is an attempt to pretend that Caesar is a man like ourselves."
"He is not so different," Clodia said.
"But he is."
"He is only different in having no heart, and let me tell you, Decimus Brutus, that there are many men like that." "And women, Clodia?"
"You mean me, of course. Well, I am not angry to hear you say so, as I would once have been. I told you I am dying. I shall not linger here to waste away. I shall simply remove myself. So there is no need to tell lies any more. I know what people say about me. That brute Cicero slandered me to the world, and the world believed him."
She laid her hand on my sleeve, and the bones stood out clear.
"I said I would not lie, but I still say they were slanders. You don't understand, Decimus Brutus, what it is to be a woman, how a woman is thwarted, perpetually thwarted, how her rage rises to see what is permitted to men and denied her. Well, very early, when I was still a child, my brother and I made a vow. We mingled our blood to seal it."
She paused, and took up the candle and examined her face in the glass, as if seeking the child she had been. And as she did so, I could envisage them, the boy-girl and the girl-boy, each of a beauty such as no sculptor could hope to seize, pressing against each other, lips yoked, their very blood commingling as they strove to unite two souls in a single body and achieve that perfect unity which the philosophers insist we once possessed and must now forever seek in vain.
"That we would be utterly ourselves, denying nothing, yielding to our every desire, fulfilling nature, hearkening and obeying every prompting of the senses, so that we might achieve the freedom of the gods, that freedom which consists of being absolutely oneself, untrammelled by conventions or the morality which the timid have constructed to ensnare the brave. You have known both of us, you more than any other have loved both of us, for what we are rather than for some imagined picture of what we might be, or be thought to be — and yet, my dear, even your love has fallen short of the perfect love we felt for each other, each being the other and the other each. Now I see that we aimed too high, exceeded our powers. Publius is dead. I am dying, a slave to lusts I no longer find delight in. My reputation — since Cicero — could not be worse. No decent woman in Rome will receive me in her house. I have always despised such women, and what they call decency, and once I would have laughed at my exclusion. Now, I do not know. The cold grey fingers of death have touched me, and what will I find when I descend to the Shades? Will the gods be angered at my presumption? Will Cybele, whom Catullus said I aped, turn on me with terrible wrath? We cannot play gods, I have learned that, my dear, too late, and yet, even as I come to this conclusion, which terrifies me and makes a mockery of my life, I see that there is an exception: Caesar, descended from gods, inhabited by Venus. Do you understand, Decimus Brutus, little Decimus Brutus, Caesar believes himself to be what my brother and I aspired to be? And in time, I will wager, the Roman people will find themselves in agreement. The Senate — that assembly of timid and greedy goats — will fall down and worship him. They will decree that Caesar is indeed a god: 'Divus Julius', they will chant, 'divus Julius'. Temples will be consecrated to him; and what will you do then, little Decimus Brutus? I will tell you your choice. You must acquiesce in the murder of liberty in Rome, or you must kill Caesar."
"Kill Caesar?"
"Kill Caesar. It is Caesar or Rome, and as a patriot, you will choose Rome. Kill Caesar. Now go, my dear, and do not return. You have meant something to me, and that is what no living man, except Caesar, can boast. I shall embrace my brother for you, and Gaius Valerius also, if he does not shrink in terror when we encounter each other in the Vale of Shadows."
CHAPTER 5
Caesar returned to Rome before the end of the year, in order to ensure that the prolongation of his dictatorship be effected without difficulty. That was achieved. Opposition in Rome was muted, though many of course still sympathised with our enemies. Despite Pompey's defeat and death, these were still numerous. They held North Africa and Spain. The leaders were now Pompey's sons, the renegade Labienus, and Marcus Porcius Cato, the one man whom Caesar utterly hated. In general, hatred was an emotion Caesar despised. He called it "wasteful". No doubt that was his opinion, but the cause of his inability to feel hatred went deeper. To hate someone was to admit him as an equal, and Caesar recognised no equals. This made his hatred of Cato all the stranger, for there was no respect in which Cato could be thought to match Caesar. He was an incompetent general, whose legionaries loathed him, because his pride (or perhaps his secret suspicion of his own incapacity) made him treat them abominably. Caesar could always be free-and-easy with the common soldier for he had no doubt of his superiority, and knew that he could quell insolence or disaffection with a frown or a single biting sentence. Cato was stiff and bullying and a savage disciplinarian; and perhaps it was because inwardly he feared the men he was so eager to dominate. Besides, Cato was a bore with no sense of humour. I have remarked before that Caesar had no fundamental humour, but he was always capable of the sort of quip that pleases the legionaries. And they would follow him eagerly anywhere, into all sorts of danger, confident in his genius; whereas those who served with Cato tell me that he took the precaution of assigning some of his bodyguards to protect his back from his own men. I would find this hard to believe of any other Roman general.
Moreover, Cato was a wooden orator, and a man of lamentable judgment. He was a drunkard, of the heavy sullen type. There was no joy in him. Caesar once described him to me as "the coldest dullest piece of base metal you will ever meet". And yet it wasn't enough for him to despise Cato, as I did; he was consumed with hatred.
Why? Obvious reasons may be advanced. Cato once threatened to bring a prosecution against Caesar on account of atrocities committed in the conquest of Gaul. That threat certainly disturbed Caesar's vanity. No one, after all, was ever more careful of his reputation than Caesar. But of course he knew that the threat was empty. What happened in Gaul, horrible though it frequently was (I'm sorry, Artixes), was no worse than any other conquest. It is easy for people who never leave Rome or their country estates to preach morality; but you cannot subdue a proud people, and win Empire and glory for Rome, without harsh measures. Caesar was never afraid to take such measures, and on the whole his methods were justified. After all, even you must admit, Artixes, that Gaul was pacified, whatever has happened subsequently. Even that won't, I am certain, alter the fact that all Gaul is now incorporated within the Roman Empire, which Gauls themselves will eventually confess to be to their benefit. Civilisation cannot be spread amongst barbarians by the methods which appease the consciences of civilised men. To subdue barbarians inevitably requires a degree of barbarity.
Besides, it was absurd of Cato to try to arraign Caesar on such a count. He never tired, after all, of talking about his great ancestor, Cato the Censor, and everyone knows the part he played in the spread of Empire. It was that model of Republican virtue who concluded every speech in the Senate, no matter what the ostensible subject of the debate, with the words: "and in my opinion Carthage must be destroyed". He didn't rest till that was done, not a stone left standing, and the people either massacred or sold into slavery. And yet his admiring grandson would have charged Caesar with war crimes. No wonder it gave Caesar such pleasure — malicious pleasure, I grant you — to found the city of Carthage anew.
Cato's assumption of superior vi rtue infuriated Caesar, all the more because so many people accepted it unquestioningly. He thought him a hypocrite. He also considered that Cato not only failed to understand what Caesar called "the predicament of the Republic", but was an obstacle to others' comprehension.
And then a personal element sharpened the hatred each felt for the other. Cato's half-sister was Servil
ia, who was, as I've remarked before, in my mother's opinion at least, the only woman Caesar ever really loved. When they were young Servilia is said to have dominated Cato who revered her as the very model of Roman womanhood. And then she submitted to the dissolute Caesar, with his dangerous Popular political attachments, and his connection with Gaius Marius — for an aunt of Caesar's had actually married the old brute. This was too much for Cato; he went about saying that his sister had been bewitched and also that it was a great mistake on the part of Sulla, when dictator, to allow himself to be persuaded to remove Caesar's name from the list of proscribed persons. He liked to quote Sulla's remark as he reluctantly spared Caesar: "In that young man I see many Mariuses."
"Just so," Cato would say, as if this judgment represented the sum of political wisdom. So Cato hated Caesar on account of his debauchment of Servilia.
There's actually rather a good story about this triangular relationship. During the debates in the Senate concerning the conspiracy of Catiline, Caesar and Cato were of course on different sides — indeed, you may remember that Caesar was actually suspected of involvement. Well, a note was passed to Caesar, and Cato leapt up and accused him of receiving messages from the enemies of the State. "I assure you, Conscript Fathers," Caesar said, "this note relates to a purely private matter." "Why should we accept the word of a liar who sympathises with Catiline?" Cato shouted. "I urge that Caesar be commanded to produce the note that we may all see what treasonable business he is engaged in."
"Very well," Caesar said, "if Cato insists I shall let him see the note, but I protest that it should go no further."
"I shall decide that," Cato replied. So Caesar passed him the note, which was a love-letter from Servilia, couched in extremely explicit terms.
I have often heard Caesar tell that story.
Then the matter of Servilia's son, my cousin Marcus Junius Brutus, also came between them. This seems strange when you consider how dull Markie is, but Caesar and Cato competed to exercise influence over him, each affecting to think him the coming great man, a model of virtue. It was absurd; nevertheless that was how they felt. Of course there have always been rumours that Markie was Caesar's son, and I know that sometimes at least Caesar liked to think that this was so. Absolute nonsense, as my mother assured me: Markie was the very image of his extremely dull father. Cato of course was horrified at the suggestion. It seemed to me that he half-believed it, however, and was convinced that if he could attach Markie to himself, this would disprove the story. Be that as it may, it was quite a comedy to see the pair strive for the boring young man's approval and devotion. As for Markie, he took the competition for granted; even as a youth he was so puffed up with conceit that it appeared perfectly natural to him that two of the great men in the State should vie for his confidence and approval. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?
He inclined towards his uncle who appealed to his dull taste and his antiquated notions of Republican virtue. If you ask me, he was always a little afraid of Caesar, partly because his pedestrian intelligence found it difficult to follow the leaps of Caesar's conversation; and he was of course shocked by the audacity of Caesar's speculations. Besides, he was ashamed of his mother's affair with Caesar, and not even Markie could convince himself, despite the rare ability he has always had to believe exactly what he chooses, that they were only good friends. On the other hand, like most people, he couldn't resist Caesar's famous charm, and even Markie couldn't fail to find Caesar a much more agreeable companion than Cato. So he succumbed to Caesar whenever he was present and rebelled against him in his absence.
Cato worked hard to persuade him that Caesar was fundamentally evil, as well as being a danger to the Constitution which they both adored. So at the beginning of the civil war, Markie attached himself to the respectable party and followed Pompey to Greece. No doubt he thought Pompey would win; that, after all, was the received opinion among those who underestimated the magnitude of what Caesar had achieved in Gaul. Markie's decision to join Pompey was clear evidence of Cato's influence, for Servilia detested the Great One, because he had been responsible for the death of her first husband, Markie's father.
He didn't distinguish himself during the campaign which ended at Pharsalus; Markie has no more notion of soldiering than I have of rope-dancing. Indeed, though Pompey had proclaimed himself delighted to receive such a virtuous young man, he had taken care to give him no responsibility. Pompey may have been in decline, but he still knew better than that.
Caesar of course was delighted to make Markie one of the most conspicuous objects of his clemency. He even ordered us to save him by all means, and if he refused to surrender, to let him escape. In fact he was one of the first to run away, and spent a couple of days skulking among the reeds at the edge of a marsh. Then he got to Larissa whence he wrote to Caesar in the most friendly terms. Caesar at once invited him to join us.
I was in Caesar's tent with Casca when he arrived, and we found the whole thing nauseating. First, Caesar dissolved in tears, saying again and again that his one fear during the battle had been that the noble Brutus might be slain.
("Fat chance of that," Casca whispered. "I bet he was safe in the rear." And indeed, I later heard that he had spent the day of the battle writing an essay in his tent, till slaves brought him the news of defeat and he ran away.)
Then Caesar kissed Markie, and wept some more, and Markie wept too, and begged Caesar's pardon, and excused himself by saying that he had been under his uncle's influence. It was a ludicrous scene. I have attended many such, but I can't recall one more absurd.
The upshot of it all was that Caesar soon appointed Markie Governor of Cisalpine Gaul. Casca remarked that while Caesar might be besotted, his judgment hadn't entirely deserted him. Cisalpine Gaul was then one province where we could be sure there would be no fighting. Markie at once set himself to win popularity with the people under his jurisdiction, but he took care to remind them that all their blessings were obtained as a result of the goodness of Caesar.
Caesar was now eager to proceed with the African campaign.
"It gives me a chance to settle Cato's hash for good," he said. "That is essential, for you see, Mouse, as long as he is at liberty, opposition will continue. He is a festering boil, which must be lanced."
I agreed with him entirely.
Despite his desire for speed, certain matters held him in Rome.
The first, and most grievous, was a mutiny by his favourite Tenth Legion, then stationed at Capua. They had grounds for complaint. Their pay was even further in arrears than is usual in armies. Some, whose term of service had expired, had been denied demobilisation. Land promised to veterans had not yet been assigned. So both their present state and their future prospects were unsatisfactory, and now they learned that they would be required to embark for Africa. Agitators, recruited in my opinion by Caesar's enemies in the Senate, infiltrated the camp and found the tinder dry. Accordingly a committee was formed — as committees always are in such circumstances. The officers were arrested and bound in chains, as officers always are unless they have the wit to run away; and the men talked about marching on Rome, determined to lay their grievances before Caesar and demand redress. It was a nasty moment. It was clear to me that if Caesar should fail to suppress this mutiny, everything for which we had worked, fought and suffered would be destroyed. I am told that when the news of the mutiny reached Cato in Africa, he not only ordered that it should be published throughout his camp (in itself an act of extraordinary folly, since mutiny is as contagious as an outbreak of rioting in a city), but went happily drunk to bed, and stayed drunk for two days. He deserved to have his throat cut for being such a blockhead. However, he got away with it for the time being.
Caesar, as I have said, was at his best and most masterful in the hour of crisis. Calm weather did not suit him; storms aroused and stimulated his genius. He tried to temporise with the mutineers, sending young Sallust, an officer whom he held in more respect than I did, to the camp
near Capua, with authority to promise substantial sums of extra pay. Sallust wasn't even accorded a hearing, being met with a volley of stones and insults, which persuaded him that his life was in danger. He therefore fled back to Rome.
It was soon after this that the legionaries themselves moved north. Other troops had been attached to their unworthy cause, and the danger was indeed very great. The excitement in Rome was immense, especially among our enemies who went about promising each other that Pompey was going to be avenged, and that it would soon be possible to restore what they described as "Republican normalcy". Their excitement wasn't even allayed by the news that the mutineers had sacked properties on their march and murdered two men of praetorian rank. The ordinary citizens took a different view, and a more sensible one. They were frankly terrified and looked to Caesar to protect them.
Caesar called his chief lieutenants together to consider how the matter should be handled. Incidentally, since I have often heard people who knew nothing of his working methods declare that he acted always on his own judgment, paying no heed to the opinions of those around him, I must point out that this wasn't the case. Quite the contrary indeed; he invariably paid close attention to what others thought, even if he also liked to make it seem that the eventual decision was entirely his. That was his nature, and that was how he liked to work.
On this occasion Antony's advice was clear. (I don't know why I say "on this occasion", since Antony never lacked confidence in his own opinion — at least till Caesar challenged it, when he would backtrack with the speed of cavalry in flight.)
"Caesar," he said, "we have no shortage of loyal troops still under discipline. We should march out of Rome and confront the buggers. Make it clear you won't stand for any nonsense, but are ready to fight them if need be. That will sort them out. We can all be certain that they won't engage in battle against you yourself."
