friendsh.'
He looked up, his eyes bleary, yet his mind — which, despite its well-known deficiencies, never lacked penetration — still working. 'Ah, that cut you to the quick, Moush. You didn't know? You can't deshieve me, I've sheen the way you look at the brat. Now the General'sh shlipped in and cut you out. Well, remember thish: that brat has an eye for the main chansh. He'll never give himshelf to Moush when he can get Sheashar…'
I did not believe him. But from that moment I was disturbed by jealousy. I could not forget the suspicions he had aroused, and I found myself watching the way Octavius flattered Caesar, and found myself remarking the coquette in him. And I could not doubt that Caesar was capable of anything.
To this private turmoil were added doubt and perplexity concerning what we would find in Spain. Word came to us that the whole peninsula was in revolt against Rome, and that the dissident generals, Gnaeus Pompey and Labienus (the traitor, as we then thought of him) were encouraging the native rebels, and even colluding with them. This was a sad measure of the debasement that results from civil war. The same thing had happened in Africa, when the Pompeians had surrendered a Roman province to King Juba. Even so, it was hard to credit that the mind of a man like Labienus could be so distorted by personal resentments and ambition that he could place his own interests so absolutely above the interests of Rome and Empire. I was dismayed and angered when I reflected how many Roman legionaries had perished, how a succession of noble generals had striven, in the great endeavour to bring Spain under the benign and fruitful rule of Rome, and now saw this great enterprise undermined by the selfishness of faction.
Reports brought us terrible news. Troops loyal to Caesar were executed by order of the Pompeys or Labienus; this was all the more bitter to hear in the case of Labienus for he had formerly commanded some of the men whom he so callously committed to the sword. Moreover, Gnaeus Pompey was operating what was no less than a reign of terror against those provincials who, acknowledging the benefits they had obtained from Rome, tried to hold fast to Caesar. The family of the great financier Balbus, Caesar's loyal friend, without whose assistance he could never indeed have maintained his army throughout these terrible wars, had to flee from their mansion in Cadiz disguised as peasants.. The house itself was sacked, and Balbus later showed his generosity (and his wealth) by accepting his losses philosophically and neglecting to seek the recompense from the public Treasury which Caesar would have felt obliged to make.
It was winter, and the landscape of central Spain is terrible in that season. The rivers are foaming torrents through a sea of rock. It is like the desert in its immensity, and yet unlike the desert in its meaning. The desert denies man; Spain breaks him as even the backs of its mountains are broken. I have never been in a country which spoke so clearly of its indifference to man and his meaning. Perhaps it was this indifference which accounted for the atrocity of the Spanish War.
We fought our way to the south, battling against the elements and geography rather than the enemy who fell back before us. So we advanced through the wake of the destruction which they wrought. Food was scarce and supplies difficult to organise. I have often said that the most important officer in the army is the quartermaster; it was never truer than in Spain.
At last we caught up with Labienus and Pompey on the plain of Munda a few miles out of Cordova. They could avoid battle no longer. We knew it was by Labienus' counsel that they had drawn us so far forward, weakening our army. Gnaeus Pompey would have been rash enough to offer battle weeks before. But Labienus said 'no'. Perhaps he had been hoping that Caesar's well-known impatience would lead him to make a rash move; there was, after all, no officer who knew Caesar's mind better than Labienus, except myself. And indeed Labienus' strategy had almost worked, for Caesar had been tempted by the notion of trying to outflank the enemy, and had been on the point of essaying this audacious enterprise (which would, of course, have exposed his flank to a counterattack while he was still on the march) when I had urged him that, in accepting the apparent invitation offered by the enemy's movements, he would be falling into a trap laid by Labienus. He was displeased at the suggestion, but one aspect of Caesar's genius (which, as you know, Artixes, I have never denied, and which indeed you Gauls have felt so severely) that never deserted him was his ability to let reason in the last resort speak loud. So, although he was piqued by my suggestion that his judgment was in this instance unsound, he yet gave the matter due consideration, and acted as I had advised. And I am bound to say that he showed no resentment of the fact that my judgment had been better than his, though he did not acknowledge it publicly either. Indeed, when Antony urged the outflanking movement, arguing forcefully that it would surprise the enemy and offer us the chance of a quick victory, Caesar employed my arguments against Antony as if they had been his own. But I suppose that is ever the way of genius, which must always be supreme.
Labienus had chosen their position. One could see it was his work at a glance. They were drawn up on the crest of a rise. Behind them the ground rose gently again towards the little town of Munda. It was not a steep hill, but from the plain we would still have to climb perhaps a hundred feet. That may not sound much, but it is a lot to ask of soldiers attacking a well-armed and well-trained enemy, not deficient in number. Labienus and Pompey had, we were assured, some thirteen legions. These were drawn up in the centre. The Moorish and Spanish auxiliaries, half of them cavalry, were on the wings. The ground was steeper there. There was no choice but to make a frontal attack.
The night before the battle was very cold. It was the day after the Ides of March, and a hard frost. Meteors blazed in the sky. The priests reported that the images of war we carried in our baggage had sweated blood. A deserter assured us that the eagles of the Pompeian legions had dropped the golden thunderbolts from their talons, spread their wings and flown to our camp. When none arrived, the man was soundly whipped. I suppose he was either drunk or demented.
The battle began with a brief cavalry skirmish, which was no more conclusive than such things usually are. Then the lines were locked. It was not a day for manoeuvring, and there was indeed no scope for any clever device. This was a battle, I saw at once, that would be gained by whichever side pounded the hardest. In such battles what matters most is morale. As long as men feel they are supported, they will hold their ground. They know besides, if they are experienced troops, that they have only two choices: to break through, or to engage in that most difficult of movements, an orderly retreat. Two fears dominate the mind of the experienced officer to the exclusion of all else. The first is that his own troops will break through on too narrow a front, with the result that they can be cut off and massacred. The second is that panic will set in. The officer's task therefore is to hold the line steady.
I have never known such fighting as at Munda. Our own troops were wonderfully resolute. They had not marched through Spain, enduring terrible hardships, to lose everything now. On the other hand, I was amazed by the enemy's spirit. This was quite different from anything we had previously encountered in the civil wars; it was as if the hatred which Labienus and Pompey's sons felt for Caesar had communicated itself to the whole army. I saw something else in one of those flashes of insight that can come upon one when nerves and body are fully stretched: this resolution was the justification of the policy of atrocities which the enemy commanders had deliberately pursued. In earlier campaigns the enemy's morale had been undermined by Caesar's declared policy of clemency; that, of course, was what he had intended. Now, as a result of their own actions, they knew that they had put themselves beyond his mercy. For them, as for us, it was a matter of conquest or death.
After some two hours of fighting, we had gained little ground. The enemy had yielded perhaps twenty yards, but their position was if anything stronger than before. A ripple of doubt ran along our lines. At that moment Caesar's self-control snapped.
He yelled: 'Soldiers, are you going to betray me now to these boys?' and, snatching up a sword and shield from a wounded soldier, dashed against the enemy line. For a moment he disappeared from my view.
'Save the General,' I cried. 'Will you let him die alone? Will you be thus disgraced?'
I grabbed a centurion by the shoulder and pointed towards the melee around Caesar.
'There is where the battle must be won. Save the General or die disgraced.'
Waving my sword high, but quickly couching it in the attack position, I led a charge of some two hundred men towards where the troops around Caesar were struggling. It turned the issue. For a moment the battle stood still. Then, very slowly and still in good order, the enemy left began to withdraw.
Our position was now one of the greatest danger. I could imagine Labienus smile as he watched the battle develop from his vantage point at the gates of Munda. Another fifty yards, he must have thought, and I shall be able to loose my cavalry on the enemy's flank. I shouted orders to halt the attack and re-form our ranks, but in the noise and press no one heard me or had sufficient self-control to obey. I looked across and up the hill. I could see cohorts of Labienus' cavalry and infantry moving from his right and centre. Our position was more dangerous than ever, and
