what it is worth,' he lowered his chin and smiled on us, 'not an inconsiderable worth, I am perhaps entitled to believe on account of the encomia which have been lavished on me during my long and not unproductive career — very well then, your error consists in taking a purely mechanistic view of public affairs. You concentrate on the structure of the Constitution, and observe how it came under strain. But in doing so, you neglect to consider the far more important and significant question, which is not 'How?' but 'Why?' And they are not, give me leave to assure you, by any means the same thing. We can easily see how things fall apart; but why? That goes deeper, and perhaps it requires the wisdom which only age can bring even to commence to offer an answer. So, I must say that in my view we are concerned principally with a question of morality. Yes, morality, not mechanics. The sickness of the Republic lies not in its institutions — institutions which have so gloriously stood the test of time — but in the men who inhabit them. Selfishness now reigns where zeal for the public good used to flourish. We are suffering, that is to say, from what I shall call 'individualism'. What do I mean by that? Simply this: the readiness of men to respond to any public matter with the question, 'What's in it for me? Where may I find personal advantage?' rather than the question that so nobly informed the minds of our forefathers, 'What does Rome require of me?''
He paused, looked round the table, fixing his gaze on each of us and holding it, till the other turned away, perhaps in embarrassment. Even I found myself lowering my eyes, but when I looked up I saw that the youth who had raised the matter was returning Cicero's scrutiny with a calm and candid look. A smile played around his lips, and he appeared eager to hear what the veteran orator had to impart. There was no insolence in his smile, and I do not believe that even Cicero felt any, but it was Cicero who broke off the exchange and, with an air of urgency, resumed his discourse.
'What does Rome require of me? That is the question I have put to myself throughout my long and not inglorious career. It was in full consciousness of the import of that question that I confronted the information brought to me concerning the foul conspiracy of Catiline. If each of us asks himself that question, we shall know how we should conduct ourselves. This vice, which I call 'individualism', is in my view Greek, not Roman. Let us extirpate it from our public life, and then we shall resume our antique Roman virtue. Individualism is the curse of our age and the occasion of our present discontents…'
His hand shook as he raised his goblet of wine, and he wiped first his lips, then his temples, with a napkin.
For my part, it seemed that he had spoken more dangerously and more rashly than he knew. This term, 'individualism', which he had coined: who incarnated it but Caesar?
The party broke up. I contrived to attach myself to the youth who had aroused my interest on account of his demeanour and intelligence.
'I should know who you are,' I said, as we stepped into a summer night that was now cool. 'But I am sorry to say I don't.'
'That's natural,' he said. 'I was a child when we last met, and of course I have changed. Since then, I have been away. But I know you, and have heard my uncle speak warmly of your talents and character.'
'Your uncle?'
'Caesar. I am Gaius Octavius Thurinus. My mother is Caesar's sister.'
'But of course,' I said. 'Forgive me, but you were indeed a child, if an attractive one, when I last saw you, and now you are a youth — and even more attractive.'
'Oh,' he said, not resisting when I took his arm, 'it is kind of you to say so. I have been cultivating Cicero. This term he uses, 'individualism'. I find that interesting.'
'Cicero takes a Romantic idea of the past,' I said. 'In my opinion men have always been quick to fight for what they see as their own personal interests.'
'Oh yes, I understand that, but nevertheless I think he may be right when he says that the pursuit of self- interest dominates public life, to a greater extent than it used to.'
'Perhaps, but you are to remember that the competition for honour and glory has always dominated men's minds. Which of us does not seek personal glory?'
'I am sure you are right,' he said, 'and yet there must be a means surely of harnessing this desire to the public good; and may not Cicero be correct in saying that our ancestors found such a means, and we have lost it?'
Over the next weeks I saw much of young Octavius. I could not see enough indeed. It is not too much to say that I fell in love with him. I was charmed in equal measure by his beauty and his intelligence. Yet it was something beyond these qualities which so attracted me; even at his most affectionate, I was aware of the distance which he kept between himself and the rest of mankind — even a lover. It was a distance I longed to bridge, and my failure to do so intensified my passion. Even as I kissed his lips and felt his arms steal round my neck and his smooth limbs intertwine with mine, I was conscious that something of him stood apart, that he never surrendered himself even to the pleasures in which he delighted, that he was always observing all that we did, and exercising judgment in his uncanny detachment. It was this quality which so inflamed me. In love we always seek possession, and yet the closer I held him to me, the less I was able to take possession of his essential being.
At one moment he seemed only a boy delighting in his beauty, and in the admiration which he aroused in me. Certainly, he sought admiration. He would lie naked, inviting me to stroke his shapely thighs (which he sha ved and oiled with great attent iveness), murmuring as my lips moved over his flat smooth belly, caressing my neck and shoulders and running his fingers down the line of my back. His joy was real as mine, and yet he remained aloof, superior, remote, as if he observed all at a great distance. Even Clodia could not surpass his ability to tantalise a lover.
The philosophers declare that the love between a man and a youth may be the noblest of emotions. They assert that the mature lover schools his friend in wisdom and virtue. I know the theory well. But it was not like that with Octavius, and I believe it rarely is. I was enthralled, and, being enthralled, diminished. If I were to approach Artixes (to whom I shall of course not read these pages of my memoir) as I approached
Octavius, then I might indeed enjoy what philosophers promise. But Octavius, though a youth, seemed older and wiser than I. I was for those weeks his slave, as I had been Clodia's.
I neglected my wife for his sake. Longina was the daughter of Caius Longinus Cassius. I had married her a few months previously at Caesar's urging, to cement, as he put it, Cassius' reconciliation to our party. She was not much more than a child, charming, vivacious, ignorant, and, I thought then, vicious. She had little to offer one who had enjoyed the embraces of Clodia, and I soon found she bored me. She adored dice and gossip, and she had a circle of dissolute boys of her own age, who had, as my mother would have put it, more money than sense. I was soon convinced that she betrayed me with more than one of them. I suppose it is fair to admit that I bored her also. She could be a charming companion, and she was certainly very pretty, but she never, at that period, said anything that remained in my mind for longer than the time she took to utter it.
Nevertheless one good thing came out of my marriage: I learned to know my new father-in-law, Cassius. Cassius had always been an object of some suspicion to us Caesarians. We respected his military record, of course; it was Cassius who, as praetor, had extracted the remnant of Crassus' army from the disaster of Carrhae. That was no mean achievement. We knew too that, if Pompey had followed his advice, our campaign in Greece would have been even more perilous and difficult than was the case. But few trusted him; his sardonic tongue wounded easily, and, it seemed, with pleasure. Even Caesar was not comfortable in his presence, complaining of his 'lean and hungry look'. He tried to laugh off the unease Cassius occasioned. 'Let me have men about me that are fat.'
Now Cassius said to me:
'Has it occurred to you that the State is out of balance? I yield to none in my admiration for Caesar's genius, and I know that you, Decimus, are his most loyal adherent. But… I belong to the Epicurean persuasion, you know, and we believe that there must be a measure in all things; nothing to excess. Isn't Caesar's preponderance in the State somewhat excessive? His glory outshines all others. The splendour of his sun casts all others into the shadows. How long do you suppose Roman noblemen, reared, as we all are, in a tradition which lays such great stress on virtue and personal achievement, will be content to lie in obscurity as a result of the light that is concentrated on Caesar?'
'These are dangerous thoughts.'
'But they are only thoughts, words taking the air, philosophical speculations, no more than that.' He poured wine.
'Cicero,' I said, 'has been talking of the dangers of what he terms 'individualism'. Are you saying the same thing?'
