by Allan Massie
Mark Antony led the cheering in which we all joined. There was relief that the period of uncertainty was over, that we had arrived at the moment when all was put to the test.
I confess that my own cheers were all the louder because of the fear I felt. It will be difficult for future generations to understand the awe which Pompey inspired. But it was natural. He had been the great man in Rome all my life. His achievements in Asia were unprecedented. Even Caesar's conquest of Gaul, in which I had been proud to participate, seemed a small thing in comparison. The Gauls were no better than brave barbarians, ignorant of the art of war. But Pompey had defeated great kingdoms and brought them under the yoke of Rome. Our Empire was his creation, rather than that of any other individual. For years he had overshadowed Caesar. I knew that when they first came together, Caesar was the least of the Triumvirate he formed with Pompey and Marcus Crassus. He lacked the former's reputation and the latter's wealth.
Our party had nothing to compare with Pompey's renown; it had nothing to compare with the wealth of his supporters. When I looked round that dinner-table, I saw few men whom the world had learned to respect, some — Casca, Antony, chief among them — whom it was accustomed to despise. I knew that many of Caesar's adherents were as insolvent as Casca, desperate to repair their fortunes in the wreck of the State.
I was not among them; nor was I, like others, an adventurer of no breeding. I came from one of the greatest Patrician families; I could boast a dozen consuls among my ancestors. I was rich. My estates alone could support me in luxury, when I came to inherit them - and my father was old. I had nothing to gain, for I lacked neither wealth, reputation nor standing, and much to lose. Yet I held to Caesar.
If any ask why, I cannot well answer. When I read historians, I am amazed by the certainty with which they assure us of the motive of actions. It is curious that they know such things, when few could tell us with equal certainty why they fall in love with a woman or a boy. I was attached to Caesar's staff as a young officer in Gaul. It might be natural to suggest that this determined my allegiance. But Labienus, who was much closer to him, deserted his cause, though Caesar had never spoken of Labienus anything but warmly. Some said it was because he came from Picenum, Pompey's stronghold, and so owed a prior allegiance. I do not believe this. Something in Caesar's manner offended him. Was it perhaps the very same thing which held me to the General?
I perplex myself with these questions, now, when it can scarcely matter, when it may be that nothing matters. I do not believe I have long to live. I am kept here by the Gauls as a pawn, a bargaining-counter. I foresee an ignominious end. This morning I asked the youth who has been assigned to me, and who speaks tolerable Latin, if there was any news. I deduced the worst from his silence. But it may be he is only ignorant. After all, why should he be acquainted with affairs of State?
Yes, I confess. I am apprehensive. I do not fear death. No Roman nobleman does. I should like only to be certain that I may die in a manner worthy of my ancestors. It is my fear that this will not be permitted me. A knife in the dark is more likely; then my head sent to my enemies as token of a good deed. That was Pompey's fate. Caesar pretended to be disgusted; inwardly he was relieved. He wouldn't have known what to do with Pompey, who had not been a suitable subject for his famous clemency.
I run ahead of myself, here where I am held still.
Caesar's charm, Caesar's famous charm. He had a habit of putting his arm round you, and taking the lobe of your ear between his thumb and forefinger, and playing with it while he confided, or seemed to confide, his secrets to you. I wouldn't have tolerated this from any other man. When Caesar held me thus, I felt a thrill of pleasure. Does that admission demean me?
My perplexity is all the greater, because unlike Antony and Curio, I had no certainty of victory.
When Caesar retired that night, Antony stretched himself on the couch and called for the slaves to bring another flagon of wine.
He smiled at me.
"You'll stay and drink? You'll share this gaudy night, won't you?"
"The General suggested we should retire early. There's a war to be fought," I said, taking the next couch and reaching for the wine.
"There will be no fighting, not for a long time," Antony said. "It's a picnic, a holiday excursion." "How can you be so sure?"
The smile that charmed and seduced men and women, that smile I so envied, spread across his face. There were always moments when Antony seemed like the god Apollo.
"They'll run like hares," he said. "You forget," he added, "I've just come from Rome. I know the calibre of our enemies. Nothing but wind. You heard I had to disguise myself as a slave? That meant that for a couple of days I congregated with slaves. Slaves talk among themselves in a way their masters never credit. Did you know that?"
He poured more wine, and waved the slaves who were in attendance away.
"Do you know what they said? They said that the Optimates - you know that's what Cicero calls the collection of elderly boobies arrayed against us? They said they were shit-scared. I could believe it."
"Pompey?" I said.
"Pompey is finished. He may have been a great man once. Now . . ." he turned his thumb down. "You've been in Gaul. Have you seen Pompey lately?"
"I was in Rome last winter. I saw him being carried in a litter through the Forum."
"In a litter . . . The Great One is now a great lump of lard. He never knew much, except - I grant this - how to draw up an army. But in politics he was always a baby. He's been outmanoeuvred by Caesar's enemies, who were his enemies not so long ago, most of his life in fact. They've imprisoned him, and all he has left is his reputation. Reputation. I don't give a fiddler's fart for reputation. No, dear boy, the campaign before us will be like nothing you have seen in Gaul. They fight there. This time it will be a battle of flowers. And words. You can count on Cicero for words. What do you suppose the women are like in this town?"
So I accompanied Antony to a brothel, and went drunk and sated to bed as the sun rose. That was how I began the great Italian campaign.
CHAPTER 2
It is not my intention to describe our campaign in Italy or the civil war that followed. For one thing, I do not know how much time I shall have to write this memoir; for another, I have too painful memories of the later wars so disastrously completed. Completed, that is, as far as I am concerned.
Some will see my detention here as justice. Ironic, or poetic, justice perhaps. How do I see it?
Well, let me say this. Caesar boasted of his clemency. He confined it to Roman citizens. He forgot clemency when it came to foreigners.
Take the case of the Gallic leader, Vercingetorix, for example. He was chief of the Arverni, a man of great beauty, courage and guile. I took part in that terrible campaign of Alesia. It was my first experience of total war. I rejoined the army while we were laying siege to the Gallic stronghold of Avaricum. It was winter. The snow lay knee-deep on the mountain roads. One of my fingernails fell off on account of the cold. Vercingetorix destroyed granaries and storehouses in an attempt to deny us food. Our legionaries were near despair. Caesar rallied them with insults and affection. We made a direct assault, and took the town. Caesar ordered or permitted — I have never been certain which — a general massacre.
"Why not?" Casca said. "There is food here for an army, but not for the civilian population." He was commanding a detachment sent to guard the corn-stores to prevent looting. Half the town was ablaze. The confusion was terrible. Women were raped before having their throats cut. Only a fortunate few were able to attach themselves to the army. Caesar gazed on the horror with equanimity. "The men have suffered much to achieve this," he said.
The Gauls did not despair. Vercingetorix threw himself into his citadel of Alesia. We laid siege to it. Soon we were ourselves besieged. A new Gallic army descended on us, invested our lines which were themselves investing the city. Only a commander of supreme rashness could have found himself in such a trap; only one of rare nerve an
d audacity could have saved us.
Caesar remained calm.
"Caesar is not destined to die in a barbarian land," he said, and touched his forehead.
One day, to our amazement, we saw the gates of the city open. We stood to arms, expecting an attack. It was not soldiers who began to descend the hill towards us, but a host of old men, women and children.
"So," Casca said, "supplies are running low there too."
They extended their hands towards us, pointed to their mouths, and cried out in their strange gibberish for food. Caesar gave orders that none was to be provided; neither should they be admitted to our lines: "Not even pretty girls or boys," he said. "It will do the garrison no harm to see their loved ones starving to death before their eyes."
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 obliterated 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 mother'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.
