Caesar

themselves to the army. Caesar g azed on the horror with equanimity. 'The men have suffered much to achieve this,' he said.

The Gauls did not despair. Vercingetorix threw himself into his citadel of Alesia. We laid siege to it. Soon we were ourselves besieged. A new Gallic army descended on us, invested our lines which were themselves investing the city. Only a commander of supreme rashness could have found himself in such a trap; only one of rare nerve and audacity could have saved us.

Caesar remained calm.

'Caesar is not destined to die in a barbarian land,' he said, and touched his forehead.

One day, to our amazement, we saw the gates of the city open. We stood to arms, expecting an attack. It was not soldiers who began to descend the hill towards us, but a host of old men, women and children.

'So,' Casca said, 'supplies are running low there too.'

They extended their hands towards us, pointed to their mouths, and cried out in their strange gibberish for food. Caesar gave orders that none was to be provided; neither should they be admitted to our lines: 'Not even pretty girls or boys,' he said. 'It will do the garrison no harm to see their loved ones starving to death before their eyes.'

For three days they kept up their wretched supplications. For three nights our sleep was disturbed by their piteous cries. Many of us were disgusted. A soldier does not cease to have tender feelings. But Caesar was adamant. When he found that one centurion had actually been rash enough to take possession of a lovely girl, he ordered him to be flogged, and demoted to the ranks. Then the girl was whipped out of our lines to resume her starvation.

Eventually the wretched people began to slink away. Where they went, whether any escaped, I have never known. Simply, after a few days, they had vanished. No doubt they crept into the woods to die.

By this time the relieving army had invested us. Caesar later claimed that there were eight thousand cavalry and a quarter of a million infantry. That is what he reported to the Senate, but it was sheer bravado. We had no means of knowing how many they were.

I am not going to recount the battle. It was like all battles, only worse than most. Truth to tell, accounts of battles rarely make sense. No, that is not true; they make too much sense. Historians give them a shape they don't possess. They credit commanders with a degree of control that is absent. I don't advise anyone to read Caesar's account of Alesia; talk to some of the legionaries who fought in the front line instead. As for me, I recall nothing of it. Trebonius later joked that I was as drunk as Antony, but that wasn't true. I might as well admit now that my memory has been obliterate d by the fear I experienced. I had dreamed that I would die, and I very nearly did.

Eventually Vercingetorix led an attack from the town. I think he mistimed it. Half an hour earlier, before we had secured our position against the relieving army, he might have swept us away. Even so, we might have lost if the cavalry, disregarding an order from Caesar that they were to hold their ground, had not essayed an encircling movement. When the Gauls saw what was happening, many panicked and ran back into the city. It was that moment of terror which decided the day. We were able to move forward, a mass of metal, swords thrusting; we clambered over the bodies of our enemy and pursued those who still stood back into the citadel. When the gates closed against us, I knew Vercingetorix was doomed.

The next day he sent out a herald proposing terms. Caesar said he would discuss these only with Vercingetorix himself.

The Gallic leader rode out of the stronghold that had become his prison. He was mounted on a white horse. There was a sword-gash over his right eye, but he sat straight, proud as a bridegroom. When he dismounted he still stood a head higher than Caesar, who waited for him to make obeisance. The Gaul declined to do so.

He spoke in Latin, not very good Latin, but Latin all the same. He conceded victory, and asked for mercy for his troops and tribesmen. The stench of dead bodies and blood filled the air.

Without addressing his noble enemy, Caesar summoned two centurions and told them to load the Gallic chief with chains.

'Caesar does not debate with barbarians,' he said, though during the years he spent in Gaul he had done so on many occasions.

Then he gave out orders. The two tribes of the Arverni and the Aedui would be spared; they should resume their position as friends of the Roman people. (This was clever: the Arverni were Vercingetorix's own tribe.)

'They have been led astray by evil counsel,' Caesar said, still not deigning to address Vercingetorix himself or even to look him in the face.

All the other prisoners should be allotted to the legionaries. First, however, they should dig a pit for the dead.

Then he said to the centurions, 'Take this man and keep him closely guarded.'

He never spoke to Vercingetorix again. But he had a role for him. He was to be preserved to feature in Caesar's Triumph. That didn't happen for several years. Afterwards, as you know, Vercingetorix was strangled in the Mamertine prison. Vercingetorix received these insults that day with the utmost serenity. Caesar was the conqueror; but the day belonged to his defeated enemy. I felt ashamed of Caesar that night.

(Later: I gave this account to young Artixes, the son of my captor. He has spent some time in Rome, and reads Latin easily. He is a comely young man of some charm, and I believe he sincerely pities me. He is also, as it happens, on his mother's side, a cousin of Vercingetorix himself. I was interested to see how my account struck him.

Naturally some will say, reading this confession, that I wrote it in an attempt to curry favour with him. That would not have been unintelligent, but such was not my purpose. Actually I was surprised to discover while writing how strongly I felt. This is something I have noticed before, and it raises the philosophical question as to whether such writing actually alters one's feelings, whether it is not indeed an aid to insincerity. It is not a question I can answer. The truth is, as ever, complicated: we can never recapture our precise emotions, and brooding on past events is coloured by what has happened since.

'How could you follow such a man?' he said.

He has a peculiarly candid face, rather square under a shock of yellow hair.

'You never felt either his charm or his authority,' I said. 'Tell me, do you have any memories of your cousin?'

'Why should you care? You're a Roman, and an accomplice in his murder.'

'You have read what I have written,' I said. 'That should explain my question.')

After the battle Caesar praised Antony and Trebonius. It did not concern me that he had no words for my own part in the action. I should have been embarrassed, to tell the truth, if he had said anything in my praise. I could see Labienus glower, however. He hated Antony whom he thought nothing but a debauchee. Perhaps it was at that moment that he began to separate himself from Caesar.

That night Antony came to my tent. He was drunk, as perhaps he had a right to be. I would have liked to have been drunk myself for another reason. I would rather not recall that visit, but for one thing he said.

'Caesar doesn't realise it yet, but Rome is now his.'

I thought him absurd at the time.

He lay back on my couch, his tunic rucked up.

'Slaughter makes me randy,' he said.

I suppose I smiled, as I tend to do when embarrassed.

'You look like a white mouse,' he said, 'a timid little white mouse.'

I am naturally pale, but my hair was not white in those days, but straw-coloured. It amused Antony to make a play of words on my cognomen. Perhaps one of my ancestors was indeed an albino. I don't know. My features were always sharp, never handsome, and indeed as a child I was given the nickname 'Mouse', which has remained with me. Well, Caesar means 'hairy', but Caesar himself was bald, something which did embarrass him.

'Anyway,' Antony said, 'you don't need to worry. It's a woman I want.'

He got to his feet, swaying a little, and yet, despite his drunkenness, moving with the languorous grace of a great cat. He put his hands on my shoulders as if to steady himself, and looked me hard in the face. His breath stank of wine. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

'Little Mouse,' he said, 'little Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus Mouse. You don't need to look so frightened.'

'I'm not frightened,' I said. 'I'm bored and disgusted.'