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.'
That advice was typical of Antony: vigorous, flattering to Caesar, and thoughtless. I looked round the table and noticed several heads nod in agreement. They weren't heads I would have trusted to plan an excursion to the country.
Caesar gave no sign whether he approved this plan or not.
Caius Cassius, a recent adherent to our party (he had fought in the Pompeian army at Pharsalus) looked grave. Some may have been surprised that he had been invited to attend this council, but it was Caesar's policy to bind reconciled enemies as tightly as possible to his cause and person. Now Cassius spoke, anxious, as was natural enough, to make an impression.
'I have no doubt that my friend Antony has considered the matter carefully,' he said. 'He knows these legions, and may have judged wisely. Yet it occurs to me that he may have overlooked what I would call the political aspect. There is reason to believe, is there not, that this mutiny has been fomented by agitators?'
'For myself, I detect the hand of Labienus,' Caesar said.
'Thank you, Caesar. I am grateful to have my suspicions confirmed. Now what do I mean by the political aspect? Simply this: if we march out against them, Caesar's enemies will take heart. They will say that his legions are divided against each other. They will say his party is split. They will therefore attract new adherents.'
'Bugger new adherents,' Casca said. 'I'll tell you something more dangerous still. If we march against them, they won't stand their ground, but they won't surrender either. Antony is right in saying they won't dare to face you
