by Allan Massie
Antony's unease, his evident fear that Octavius might challenge his leadership of the Caesarean party, did something to restore my hopes that all was not lost. I therefore wrote to Octavius in appropriate terms.
The flimsy unity of the Ides of March disintegrated. Markie's nerve broke with it. He fled the city, to seek support, Cassius said, in the municipalities of Latium. My father-in-law soon followed. We parted without regret, each reproaching the other for our mistakes and misfortunes. My accusations were justified. He had been the originator of our enterprise, and bore chief responsibility for its failure. "If you had listened to me ..." I said. It was too much for him. Conscious that he was in the wrong, he left me without even seeking news of his daughter.
Two days later I set out for my province of Cisalpine Gaul. Civil war could not be long delayed. Word came that Octavius had landed at Brindisi and won the support of the legions there. Caesar's heir was on the march.
I would have gone to Aricia to see Longina. But I dared not delay. Wretched news from all quarters spurred me on. Poor Longina.
Careless of danger, Casca, alone among us, refused to alter his way of life. He was surprised in a brothel by a handful of Caesar's veterans. They broke into the chamber, thrusting the terrified master of the place aside. Casca was naked and defenceless, but for his fists. They stabbed him twenty-three times, the same number of wounds as Caesar had received. I believe that most of Casca's were inflicted after death. Then they mutilated the Syrian boy with whom he had been taking his pleasure, and dragged Casca's corpse into the alley where it was discovered by the watchmen towards dawn.
Chapter 24
I wept for Casca. I feared for myself. Therefore I made all haste to my province. There I discovered puzzled and near-mutinous legions, discontented municipalities, few subordinates worthy of trust, fear and uncertainty everywhere.
I did not repine. Despondent letters came from Cassius and Markie, both of whom had now fled to the East, ostensibly to their respective provinces of Cyrene and Crete. Cassius declared civil war certain, no longer hoped for victory. Markie admitted that I had been correct in my assessment, and he mistaken: "I have trusted too much in virtue and benevolence; you, cousin, were wiser in your cynicism." I would have respected him if he had not contrived to combine his confession of error with a renewed claim to superior virtue. But I was too busy to brood on such matters.
My first business was to raise an army. The bulk of experienced legions adhered to Antony, though some might join Octavius. The boy had arrived at Brindisi and announced that, as Caesar's heir, he would now be known as Caesar Octavianus.
Cisalpine Gaul was good recruiting ground, and I soon commanded a sizeable force. Yet I could not delude myself, for I knew only too well the difference between raw recruits and the veterans of many wars. I was also compelled to dilute the quality of my best legion (the Ninth) by seconding centurions and veterans to new formations, both for training purposes and to stiffen morale.
Time was what I needed; time was denied me. First, Antony had himself appointed to Cisalpine Gaul in my place at the end of his consular year. Then, with unparalleled insolence, he held a plebiscite on the Kalends of June, to secure himself the authority to assume immediate command of my province. The proposal, unsanctioned by precedent, tore the mask of friendship from Antony's face. His ambition was now naked: to secure an absolute ascendancy in the Republic.
This alarmed Octavius, who wrote to me at last in friendly terms, offering a meeting. His letter reached me while I was making war on the Alpine tribes. The war, necessary in itself, was more valuable on account of the experience of combat it gave my troops. They performed better than I had dared to hope. It was therefore with a new optimism that I set out to meet Octavius at Orvieto, ignoring a peremptory demand from Antony that I should surrender my province to him within the month.
We met at a villa, belonging to his stepfather Philippus, in the hills outside the city.
"What a lot of soldiers you have brought, Mouse. I hope you have supplies for them. We certainly can't feed them."
He hesitated before accepting my kiss. Maecenas sniggered in the background. Young Marcus Agrippa, who had served under me in Greece and whom I respected as an efficient officer, glowered. I had hoped Octavius and I would be alone together.
"Oh no," he said, "I'm far too susceptible to your dangerous charm, my dear. Maecenas and Agrippa stay."
This time Maecenas smirked. He was dressed in the Greek fashion, his eyebrows were plucked, and he was drenched with a sweet, spicy scent.
Wine was offered, and produced with little almond cakes. We sat on a terrace overlooking a golden valley. The olive trees glimmered in the noon heat.
"Well?"
"Well," I said, "these are strange circumstances in which we meet."
"Very strange."
"You've done well," I said. "Antony is furious with you. And you've got Cicero to approve you. I admire you for that." "Cicero is respectable," he said. "And you're an adventurer." "I am Caesar's heir."
"Antony disputes that." "Naturally."
He was altogether at his ease. It was difficult to believe he was only nineteen. He still looked like the boy whom my caresses had delighted; his lips curved in the same enticing way. His skin glowed. He stretched out a bare leg and scratched his thigh.
"You've done extraordinarily well," I said.
"I know nothing, of course, about war," Maecenas, to my irritation, intervened. "It's not my thing at all. But politically we're ahead of the game."
He giggled.
"It'll come to war, though," I said, "and then where are you? Even politically, things are not quite as you think they are. You're proud of winning Cicero's support, and, as I said, that was a good move. But you can't trust him. Nobody has ever succeeded by trusting Cicero. Besides, have you heard what he's been saying? 'The boy must be flattered, decorated, and disposed of.' That's what he really thinks of you."
"Perhaps."
He bit into a peach. Juice trickled from the corner of his lips. He dabbed at it with a napkin.
"Cicero thinks he's using me," he said. "I think I'm using him. One of us will prove mistaken. Probably him. I've got an army, you see."
"Yes," I said, "and no experience of war, no experienced general."
"Are you proposing yourself, Mouse?" "Our interests are the same."
"Well, really, ducky, that's a bit of a whopper," Maecenas said. "You did kill Caesar, you know. Or have you forgotten? And we're out to avenge him. Least, that's what our men believe."
"There is a certain difficulty there, Mouse. You must see there is." Octavius smiled. "In the long run certainly."
"The immediate concern is Antony," I said. "He's your enemy and mine. He's ordered me to surrender my province, and you to surrender your legions."
"Oh, you know that, do you? All the same, I can work with Antony, once I've taught him to fear me."
"And how will you do that?"
"Any way that's necessary. That's something I learned from my father."
"Caesar, you mean?"
"Yes, Caesar, of course. I call him my father now, you know. It goes down well with the men ..."
The shadow of dead Caesar fell on the table between us. Octavius turned away. His profile, chiselled against the distant hills, held my gaze. I remarked what I had never seen before: the set of his jaw.
"He's a god now, you know. I had that officially decreed. His altars rise all over the Empire, even in your province, I'm told."
"Yes," I said. "Foolery. Caesar would have laughed himself."
"I don't think so. He was prepared for deification. You call it 'foolery', Mouse, but I have legions to support it. And the Senate approves me; I was elected consul two weeks ago. Has that news reached you?"
"Quite an occasion," Maecenas said. "My dear, you should have seen it. Twelve vultures flew overhead as the dear boy took the auspices. Well, you can imagine how that delighted the crowd, especially since there were those q
uick to remind them that Romulus himself had been greeted in the same way."
"Foolery," I said again. "Who released the birds?"
"Does that matter?" Octavius said. "They flew."
"Something else you should know," Agrippa spoke for the first time. "We're going to rescind the amnesty offered Caesar's murderers. You've had it. Your number's up."
"More wine?" Octavius pushed the jug towards me, and smiled.
"You know what else Cicero said?" Maecenas laid his hand on my arm, resisting my effort to shake it off. "He asked, 'What god has given this godlike youth to the Roman people?'"
"So you see," the godlike youth smiled again, "the game is going my way, Mouse. I don't think you have anything to offer me."
Hope all but left me then, but I struggled on. Antony marched against me, forced me into Mutina, where we withstood a terrible siege that winter. His success alarmed Octavius, who persuaded the Senate to declare him a public enemy. In his alarm he made a new overture towards me. I responded as if I trusted him. But trust had died in the early autumn sunshine in the hills above Orvieto. Yet an alliance was constructed, an alliance of shifting interest, nothing more. The consuls-elect, Hirtius and Pansa, marched against Antony, compelling him to raise the siege. My ragged, half-starved soldiers emerged from the city where we had waited for death.
If I had had cavalry, if my poor legions had not been so weakened by their privations, if, if, if . . . Then I would have pursued Antony, and might still have snatched victory. But all I could do was urge Octavius to cut off Antony's jackal, Publius Ventidius, as he marched from Picenum with three veteran legions; but the boy failed, or chose to fail . . .
My last hope was to effect a union with Lucius Munatius Plancus, governor of Gallia Comata. I knew him for a time-server, but he had written to me deploring the state of the Republic and describing Antony as "a brigand". I pushed north over the pass of the Little St Bernard. At every stage of the march deserters slipped away. Food was in short supply, likewise money. A courier came from Cicero, addressing me as the last hope of the Republic in the West. He inveighed against Antony, against Octavius, against Fate. I read his missive as hope tumbled from me like the rocks that clattered down the Alpine hillsides.
I reached Grenoble and found Plancus there. He received me with smiles and soft words. His troops were fat; they looked on my scarecrows with wonder, horror and contempt. Plancus smiled as he insulted my enemies. "Young Caesar was a monster of odious ingratitude and ambition; Antony an unprincipled scoundrel; Lepidus a vain buffoon whose word was as worthless as a Greek whore's."
Or as Plancus' own. How can you rely on a man who will speak well of no one but himself ?
On the eighth day trumpets sounded. They heralded the arrival of Caius Asinius Pollio with two legions. Pollio was an old comrade. He had been with me when we crossed the Rubicon, had fought by my side in Spain. When I greeted him, he said:
"I come from Antony."
"Oh," I said, "and Plancus has been waiting your arrival." "Just so."
"I am sorry," Plancus said, "but I really have no choice but to ally myself to Antony and Octavius."
I tried to argue my case. They would have none of it. When I said that Antony and Octavius had come together in a criminal conspiracy against the Republic, Pollio said:
"That's enough."
I withdrew to my camp, surprised that they permitted me that liberty.
That night, I slipped away, under cover of darkness, wind and rain. Only two centuries would follow me. The rest received my orders with dumb insolence and I was powerless to punish them.
My remnant of a plan was to make a wide circuit through the Alps and then head for Macedonia where Cassius was assembling an army. You know how it ended. Unable to deploy scouts (for I feared they too would desert) we were surprised, encircled, taken. The Gauls, when they learned who I was, looked on me with amazement.
Chapter 25
And so night closed upon me. I have written to both Antony and Octavius, but am reconciled to death. My last wish is to avoid dishonour; therefore I have penned this history of my engagement in the death of Caesar. Should it survive, I am confident that posterity will judge me a true servant of the Republic.
I warned Antony to beware of Octavius. "The boy will be your master," I said, "and you only his accomplice in the destruction of liberty which alone gives meaning to life."
My last flicker of hope is to sow dissension. Accordingly I reminded Octavius that Antony had described him as "a mere boy who owes everything to a name".
If only it were true . . . but the boy is no shadow of Caer " More careful, more judicious, he will exceed him in tyranny. We thought to save liberty; we leave Rome threatened with a closer confinement, a more degrading slavery.
I have had no word from Longina. I do not even know whether our son lives.
It does not matter how a man ends. What matters is how he has lived, and I have lived honourably.
I have charged Artixes with the safekeeping of this memoir. I do not think he will fail me, though he cannot understand the importance I attach to it.
This morning he ushered in a messenger whom I recognised as one of Lepidus' men. I experienced a surge of hope, which was grotesque: how could a thing like Lepidus offer hope?
His master, he said, had come together with Antony and Octavius. They were convening on an island in the river near Bologna. There they would arrange matters of State. There would be no clemency. All were agreed that Caesar's policy had been mistaken. Instead they would draw up a list of proscribed persons.
So I received my death warrant. I asked Artixes for wine. "I take it," I said, "that your father has received the same message."
He nodded, unable to speak.
"Tell him," I said, "that I understand and accept my fate." He looked at me with horror and admiration.
Farewell to my few faithful attendants. I have given the most trusted a letter for Longina, assuring her of my love, and thanking her . . .
Even as I wrote it I wondered if she had not already found a lover. Yet I feel her lips on mine.
Artixes brought me a case containing my own jewelled dagger. He brought also a message from his father. I have till dawn. This is more honourable conduct than I had expected from a barbarian. But then I know he has been impressed by the dignity with which I have borne my misfortunes. There is something in the barbarian soul which responds nobly to nobility.
Death is the extinction of a candle; nothing more.
I do not believe the poets who promise . . . but it is not good to brood on these matters. It serves nothing.
I also wrote again to Octavius, for my mind was full of him:
Do you recall that dinner at Cicero's where we first met? (Incidentally, I wager that Cicero is included, at Antony's insistence, on your list of those proscribed and that you have washed your hands of his fate; am I right?) On that occasion you said: "A man is but a man; he should not see himself as a tragic figure." I agree.
And do you recall how we talked of the danger that the pursuit of self-interest portended for the Republic?
Think of that now that you are about to be assailed by the temptations which lured Caesar to his death. Recall your friend and lover whose only crime was to care more for the Republic than for himself or Caesar. Reflect that other Brutuses will arise, if virtue and the love of liberty have not been extinguished in Rome.
You will destroy Antony. You will be wiser than Caesar and not assume the appearance of absolute power.
Yet you will possess it.
Will its exercise corrupt and obliterate the boy I loved?
I beg you to care for my wife Longina. As the daughter of Gaius Cassius and the spouse of Decimus Brutus she suffers from connections that may do her harm. Pray see to it that neither she nor our son is afflicted on my account.
It is hard to end, hard to finish all, confessing failure. Yet, Crassus, Pompey, Caesar, the great men of my youth and manhood, all met inglorious death.
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Beware the jealous gods, Octavius . . .
Remember me, while the flesh is on you. In time you too will be spilt on air.
The grey morning is touched with rosy fingers. At the door of my hut, I have breathed free air, soft for the mountains. Cocks crow in the valley.
What were Clodia's words?
"The cold grey clutch of death . . ." Something like that. "We cannot play gods," she said. When we slew Caesar we dared all that a man is fit for.
The dagger with which I stabbed him is to hand. There is no more to be said.
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