I think that, in his own view, he personified these winds.
'This Cato must be answered,' he said. 'We cannot allow it to be supposed that Cicero has produced an argument that daunts us. Unfortunately, occupied as I am with practical matters, I have no time to do it. Mouse, you write well. I have always found your reports models of lucidity and good sense. Did you know, by the way, that I have had the report you delivered me in Africa on political feeling here in Rome copied and distributed to senior officers as an example of how these things should be done? Moreover, I admire your power of sarcasm, your ability to cut through cant. And Cato, you'll agree, was all cant. Yes, Mouse, you must compose an Anti-Cato for me. You must show him up for the obstinate and malicious fool he was. Twenty thousand words should be enough. I give you a week. You can manage that? Good. It is essential that we undercut Cicero's argument, and the best way of doing so is to demonstrate that his hero was a buffoon who had no understanding of the way the world is going. It will be published under my name. I think that's necessary. It will attract more attention that way. That's settled then.'
So that was how I came to compose what, though I say it myself, was the most effective political tract to be published in Rome in my lifetime. I destroyed Cato's inflated reputation. I made it clear that, if Cicero took such a man as his hero and exemplar, his own arguments couldn't be worth a bowl of piss. I enjoyed writing it; it was brutal, sarcastic and witty. Rome laughed over it for weeks. Cicero immediately retired to his villa in Campania, for he couldn't tolerate the mirth which I had aroused at his expense. Men said that his Cato had all the gaiety of an old woman who had eschewed sex, while my response was as delightful as a nubile girl. And of course Cicero dared not make any reply, or criticism of what I had done, because he believed Caesar was the author.
Only two considerations disturbed my pleasure in my achievement. The first was Caesar's response. Naturally, he was lavish in praise, for it was a principle of his always to commend good work done by those whom he considered his subordinates, and in this case he recognised that my squib had achieved exactly the effect which he desired. It had lanced what he feared might prove a festering sore. Besides, he couldn't help but be amused and pleased by Cicero's evident discomfiture…
And yet he broke off his expressions of satisfaction to say:
'It's no criticism of you, Mouse, to say that I wish I had had time to write the thing myself. I'm not questioning what you have done, which is indeed admirable, when I remark that you have not risen to the full measure of the argument. You have a rare talent for sarcasm as I have remarked before, but you lack the fundamental scepticism of true greatness. There is a lack of strength and freedom in your argument. There is a lack, too, of exuberance. But then how could it be otherwise? You are a good chap, and a skilful writer, and I am fond of you and grateful to you. But you are not Caesar. You have not cast yourself free of the chains formed in the prison of conviction.'
Considering that the Anti-Cato — of which, I repeat, I am the sole author, for Caesar did not add a line, did not even revise the tract, whatever some people may assert — has a freshness and life that is absolutely missing from his own, frequently turgid account of his Gallic War, I thought this not only poor criticism, but a piece of what, coming from anyone but Caesar, I would have termed 'impertinence'. Of course I did not say so, but accepted his observations without comment.
But the other consideration was still more disturbing. I could not clear my mind of Cicero's sub-text. I found myself wondering if he might not be right.
F ortunately, I had not long to brood on these matters. Affairs in Spain demanded Caesar's personal attention, and this time, to my great pleasure, he required me by his side.
'It will be the most formidable campaign since Pharsalus,' he said, 'and I need those generals whom I trust most. There is no immediate work for you in Rome, in any case, Mouse, and you are not yet due to take up the governorship of Cisalpine Gaul. Besides, I propose that young Octavius should also accompany me, and I can think of no officer better fitted to introduce him to the arts of war than you. Except myself, of course, but I shall be too occupied to give the lad as much attention as I could wish. Between us, however, we shall see to his schooling. Besides, I am afraid that if you were not with us, he would fall under the influence of Antony. I say nothing against Antony, of course. I know his loyalty and his capacity. I recognise his charm and attractiveness as I applaud his courage. Nevertheless, I can't pretend that I think he is the best influence on the young, and certainly not for my nephew who is also my heir.'
And so it happened that I travelled with Caesar and Octavius. On account of the lateness of the season — it was the second half of November when we were at last able to leave the city — we chose the land route, and journeyed by carriage through Cisalpine Gaul and along the northern coast of the Mediterranean, entering Spain by that narrow pass between the mountains and the sea.
Caesar's conversation on this long journey had all its accustomed charm and interest. He delighted in instructing Octavius in history, politics, and military affairs. He loved to let his talk range wide, especially in the evenings after supper, when he would discourse on philosophy and literature. I confess that I myself have learned more from Caesar than from any other man, and it was clear that Octavius derived much benefit from this extended intercourse with his uncle. Nevertheless, he was too shrewd to accept everything that even Caesar told him, and on more than one occasion irritated the General by the pertinacity of his questioning.
I would have found the journey delightful but for two things. The first was that even before we set out, Octavius made it clear to me that our relationship had changed.
'I shall always be fond of you, Mouse,' he said, 'and remember our little affair with tender affection. But I am no longer a boy to be stroked and petted. I regard this campaign as the beginning of my career in public life, and I don't choose to expose myself to scandal and contempt by giving any suggestion that I am a pathic. I'm sure you will understand my reasons, and sympathise with my decision. I know you will, because I believe your love for me is based on respect and not merely on lust. Besides, any hint that our relationship remained as it was while my uncle was in Africa would endanger us both. I am fairly certain that Caesar knows about what had been between us, for my friend Maecenas has established that Caesar has set spies on me, no doubt to determine whether I am suited to be his heir. I know you don't like Maecenas, but I assure you that in such matters he is completely reliable.'
He was correct. I detested and despised Maecenas, a young nobleman who claimed to be descended from Etruscan kings. He was a dandy, aesthete, and scented epicene, and I was quite sure that he was in love with Octavius himself. I also feared that he would lead him into vicious practices. The only consolation was that Maecenas was not to accompany us, but had left to study rhetoric and philosophy in Greece, where I had no doubt he would find many less respectable diversions.
I did not argue with Octavius, or try to persuade him to change his mind, for, as he supposed, I understood the good sense of his decision. That didn't make it easier to bear; and indeed the last six months had seen him grow more beautiful and desirable than ever. But I have always had a high regard for virtue, and the chief virtue, after courage, is self-respect. Without self-respect, indeed, neither wisdom nor virtue is possible. So I acquiesced.
Nevertheless, the constant presence of Octavius, while he denied himself to me, was bitter-sweet. On the one hand, I could not fail to delight in the charm of his person, his smile (which he still bestowed as freely as ever on me) and his conversation; I was still warmed by the affection he continued to show me and by the evident pleasure he took in my company. On the other hand, I was tormented by desire. I found myself repeating lines which my poor Catullus had addressed to Clodia.
And then Antony made matters worse. He had conceived a strong dislike of Octavius: 'the white-headed boy', as he called him. (Actually his hair was pale-gold in colour.) Antony has never been able to guard his tongue, especially in his cups. One night he was angered when, in a discussion at supper, Octavius exposed the inadequacy of his arguments, and Caesar laughed and nodded in appreciation.
'The boy has you there, Antony,' he said. 'Your shoulders may be broader, but his head is wiser. You would do well not to lock horns with him, for I fear he will outsmart you at every turn.'
Antony scowled and turned to the wine-flask. Later that evening, when the others had retired, he dismissed the slaves and broke out into loud complaint.
'I have served the General loyally for almost ten years. I have stood by his side in battle. He has never given me a commission which I have failed to execute. And now, he encourages that brat to make a fool of me. Brat? Did I say, brat? Worse than that.'
He pulled himself up from his couch and slumped across the' table.
'We all know the General's morals. The brat's his catamite. Well, let a man fuck where he will. It's no reason to let his infat — infat' — he had some difficulty with the word — 'infatation,' he tried, 'make him disregard his loyal
