Caesar

'Cicero, let us agree, is an old windbag. We have always striven to excel, and what is that strife but the individualism he has now discovered? But formerly, the contest was one in which any man of noble birth might hope to triumph. It was agreed that that triumph should not be enduring; that others must have their turn in the limelight, while men of outstanding merit rested in the background ready to resume their labours if the State required their service. But now? Things are different, aren't they? Caesar's pre-eminence is such that we find ourselves asking whether we serve Rome or Caesar.'

'Young Octavius' — to my annoyance I felt myself blushing as I pronounced his name — 'suggested to me that our ancestors found a means of harnessing the desire to excel to the public good, which we, in our generation, have lost.'

'That young man would be wise not to let his uncle hear him speak in that vein. But he is right. The question is: what should be done? Do you think, Decimus, that it might be possible to persuade Caesar to retire from public life? There is, after all, the example of Sulla.'

'Sulla is not a name to mention to Caesar, especially not as a pattern he might follow.'

'I understand that. I am not speaking idly, Decimus, as Cicero now speaks. Caesar is heading for trouble. The more he separates himself from his natural peers, the more he stands alone in his glory, the more surely he breeds discontent. The last public service Caesar could do would be to withdraw, to devote his talents to the practice of literature perhaps. After all, he often says that that is his chief joy in life. I don't believe him, of course; everyone knows he prefers women and war. But that is no reason why he shouldn't be taken at his word. I was never worried by Pompey's pre-emin ence because I always knew that Pompey was more show than substance. But Caesar is a different matter. His pre-eminence is real. That is why it is dangerous: for him and for Rome.'

'What do you mean, Cassius?'

'He will return victorious from Africa. He will then go to Spain and extirpate the last remnants of armed opposition. What will he do then? There are those who say he wishes to call himself King.'

Dusk was falling. We were in Cassius' villa in the Alban Hills. A fierce winter wind threw red-tinted clouds across the sky. The tops of the pine trees bent before it. Far below one could see the wind troubling the waters of the lake. Cassius threw another log of beech-wood on the fire. It spat and crackled; sparks of light danced and died away.

'A new year,' Cassius said. 'What will it bring?'

'Caesar would never accept a crown,' I said.

'No? You think not? I wish I could be as certain. Cicero says that Caesar will throw off the mask of clemency when he has finally disposed of all his enemies in arms. Do you believe that?'

'No,' I said, 'I don't. Caesar's clemency is not assumed as a disguise or as a necessary policy. Say what you will against Caesar, censure his pride; nevertheless recognise that his impulse to clemency is innate. He is clement by nature.'

'He is clement,' Cassius said, 'because he feels so great a sense of his own superiority. It is a means of registering that superiority. To revenge himself on his enemies would be, in his eyes, to lower himself to their level. Yes, I understand that.'

'That may be so. But I also know that this impulse was ^ — fortified by his own youthful experiences in the days of Sulla's proscriptions. I have often heard him say that history proves that by practising cruelty, you earn nothing but hatred. 'Nobody,' he says, 'ever achieved an enduring victory by such means except Sulla, and Sulla is a man I do not propose to imitate.''

(If I read this passage to Artixes, he will certainly answer that Caesar practised abominable cruelties in Gaul.)

'All right,' Cassius said, 'I accept that. But do you know what Cicero is also saying: that it is a disgrace to live under Caesar's rule. He has even been heard to mutter that he wished Caesar would persecute him, so that he might regain his self-respect.'

'In my opinion, Cicero would in the last resort abandon his self-respect more readily than his comfort and security.'

'You are right there, Decimus. Indeed he has already done so, which accounts for his grumpiness. Well, we shall not settle these matters this afternoon, but remember: I do not think things can continue as they are. I fear we are to be confronted with the choice between tyranny and anarchy, and I do not know which is the more to be feared. I have heard Caesar quote Euripides: 'Is crime consonant with nobility? Then noblest is the crime of tyranny.' It is a temptation which I fear he will find irresistible. And then where shall we be? Meanwhile, let's to supper. I trust my daughter is conducting herself to your satisfaction. She needs a husband's discipline, having been spared a father's on account of my long absences. And, Decimus, keep a tight hold of young Octavius. That friendship you have established may serve us well.'

If only he knew, I thought. Perhaps he did, and did not care.

Word came the next month that Caesar had destroyed his enemies in Africa. Even those who were hostile to Caesar rejoiced, since Cato and the other commanders had allied themselves to King Juba of Numidia and even gone so far as to propose to surrender an imperial province to the barbarian King. Cato, either fearing Caesar's vengeance or disdaining the clemency which he would have received as an insult, fell on his sword. I could not regard this as other than a satisfactory conclusion to a foolish life. Ironically, many received it rather as proof of Cato's superior and antique virtue. For my part, I have never admired suicides, though I know this is an unfashionable opinion. It pleased me, however, that Octavius was of my mind.

'I can't see why people praise suicides. It's living that takes courage. Not to give up. I shall never never give up.'

I believed him. I still do, now when the temptation of suicide is powerful. So easy, I think, to despise and resist that temptation, to condemn the act, from a position of security and comfort. But now… to choose my own way, rather than to expose myself to the humiliation of whatever death is determined for me? And yet… I see Octavius touch his upper lip with his tongue in that perhaps nervous gesture of his, and hear his cold, clear voice: '… not to give up. I shall never never give up.' We discussed it further, I recall. He suggested that it was time we put away what he called 'the dramatic affectations of the old Republic. A man is but a man,' he said. 'He should not see himself as a tragic figure. Keep such gestures for the stage. Life is not a play or drama.'

Can he really, so young, pretty and untried, have said all that, brooded on such matters?

Are his words a comfort to me now or a reproach?

CHAPTER 7

Caesar returned from Africa and celebrated four Triumphs in a single month to commemorate his victories in Gaul, Egypt, Pontus and Africa. This was a statement of his unprecedented glory. Of course, the first three should have been celebrated long before, if the exigencies of civil war had not prevented it. But he was pleased to group them together in this way. The month of holiday delighted the people and confirmed them in their belief that Caesar was like no other man who had ever lived. After all, Triumphs are rare. A single Triumph has conventionally been regarded as the apogee of the most illustrious career. This concatenation of Triumphs emphasised, as nothing else could — not even the dictatorship for life which he was soon to be voted — his extraordinary pre-eminence.

Naturally, as one of his chief and trusted lieutenants, my own part was conspicuous. Caesar was too wise and cautious to deny his generals their share in his glory. I rode immediately behind him in the first Triumph, which celebrated his conquest of Gaul. Indeed, I played my part in mitigating the effects of an unfortunate accident, which, had I not been at hand, might have turned into the sort of catastrophe which would have set the superstitious muttering about evil omens.

It happened like this. As Caesar rode through the Velabrum, serene amidst the cheering crowd, the axle of his triumphal chariot broke. The cart lurched to the left. Caesar was thrown sideways and would have toppled to the ground had I not spurred my horse forward and seized his shoulder, arresting his fall. The horses were reined in, and carpenters or wheelwrights (I am vague about tradesmen) hurried forward to repair the damage. The procession was halted for perhaps half an hour, to the consternation of those behind. Naturally Caesar thanked me for my help, but there was a note in his voice which I interpreted as resentful. It was as if my intervention had somehow detracted from his glory on this day of days, even though a moment's calm reflection should have told him