till that moment he had abstracted himself from the company and permitted his mind to wander through a world of dreams – 'if you are eager for battle,' Paullinus said, 'we shall fight with increased strength and a greater assurance of victory. For this is my final word: the wise general delays battle till the odds are overwhelmingly on his side. And with every day that passes the balance of advantage tilts towards Otho.'
Otho thanked Paullinus for his advice, and for speaking so frankly. Then he bit his nails while he waited to see who was eager to follow the first speaker. Marius Celsus got to his feet.
'I've had my quarrels with Paullinus in the past,' he said, 'and I still hold that he was wrong to halt the pursuit in the last battle. But what's done is done. You can never alter yesterday's course. Now Paullinus talks sense. Everything comes to he who waits, as the proverb says. All we have to do is sit tight, hold our position, and Vitellius will be like a rotten fruit that falls from the tree. Why risk defeat in battle when victory is ours if we do not do anything rash?'
A young blond legate, who had nodded to me approvingly when he saw me silence the catamites, and whom I now recognised as one whom I had been accustomed to see, years previously, in Lucan's company at the baths, now stood up. He wore the short military tunic and rubbed his hands down his thighs as if they were sweating. His thighs, I recall noticing, were shapely and free of hair. Not many men have the cool self-esteem to shave their legs on campaign. He addressed Otho in a dandified voice, with a note of haughty reserve.
'Permit me,' he said, 'to introduce myself, for few of you will know me, while those who do may be surprised to see me at this council. My name is Caesius Bassus, and I am attached to the staff of Annius Gallus. As you know, my general had a heavy fall from his horse a few days ago, and is presently laid up. Therefore he sent me here, that I might read to you a paper which he has written giving his views of what should best be done. I see no reason not to say straightaway that he is in substantial agreement with Paullinus. Nevertheless, since his reasons for advocating this course are not identical, which you may consider adds weight to the argument, I request your permission, sir, to proceed.'
As he read his general's document, a line of verse floated for a moment just out of reach. Domatilla had quoted it, I knew that, and named the author as Caesius Bassus, which meant nothing to me then. Now the three things came all at once together, Domatilla's lips framing the line as we gathered our things and looked round the garden before returning to the villa, the line itself – 'Stark autumn closed on us, to a crackling wind from the west' – and the image of the poet stretched out on a bench at the baths, caressing himself, as Lucan urged in a voice that grew sharper the more his friend ignored it, some wild course, but what I know not. How strange, I thought, to find him here, so untouched by war, untouched even by time, for he, who was several years older than myself, now appeared to me to be my equal in age.
He finished speaking made a curt bow towards the Emperor, and turned away, as if indifferent to the effect of his words which, I suspected, might have been written by him, for Annius Gallus was not reputed to have any skill in rhetoric or letters.
It seemed to me that the argument for delay was cogent, and I also believed it would accord with Otho's own predilection for postponing. But I had reckoned without the influence of his brother Titianus, who spoke up for immediate war. He was supported by the Prefect of the Praetorians, one Proculus, an ignorant and short-tempered man. Their chief argument was that delay in a civil war encourages desertions and that the troops should not be given time to consider whether they might find better fortune in Vitellius' army. This argument, though expressed inelegantly and without any attempt to appeal to reason, nevertheless prevailed. It did so because it played on men's fears, and fear is a more potent advocate than good sense. Even as Proculus spoke, I could see Otho begin to twitch; he had told me only that morning that he had dreamed of waking, naked but for a single sheet, in a vast desert; a cold wind was blowing and vultures hovered in the air. Poor man, he had no confidence in the loyalty of either his soldiers or their officers. Having won the Empire by an act condemned as treasonable by so many, he saw traitors lurking at every corner of the road he was compelled to travel.
Then Titianus, either because he sought to reserve glory for himself, or perhaps because he had a certain affection for his brother Otho, which I find hard to credit, proposed that the Emperor should not command the army in person – or rather should not remain with the army command of which he had surrendered to his brother – but should withdraw to Bedriacum some dozen miles to the rear. There, he said, the Emperor would be secure from danger and able to occupy himself with the administration of Empire.
Otho received this speech with a blank expression on his face. I don't think he knew what his brother had been going to propose; and the words pained him. They suggested that he was useless, an embarrassment to the troops, some of whom would have to die to maintain him as Emperor. He looked around as if seeking someone to oppose his brother's motion. His gaze fell on Caesius Bassus, who held it a moment and then lowered his eyes. Otho's mouth trembled. When he saw that no one was going to demand that he remained with his army, he gave a little shrug of his shoulders, clapped his hands, and called for wine for the council. Unusually, there had been none provided beforehand, perhaps because Marius Celsus was known to be intemperate.
The gathering broke up into little groups. I felt a hand laid on my shoulder. I turned to see Caesius Bassus.
He said, 'So we've made two bad decisions.' He smiled, as if making bad decisions was matter for indifference. 'You're attached to the Emperor's personal staff, 1 think,' he continued. 'So I'm afraid you will see no immediate action. But I hear you have already distinguished yourself. I congratulate you. To display virtue in war is all that is left to us, now that civic virtue has been outlawed. You must not be surprised that I know of your doings. It is not just that they have been much spoken of. I had my eye on you in any case. You were a friend of my friend Lucan, I think.'
'That does me too much honour,' I said. 'I was a mere boy. We were not equals. Therefore we could not be friends.' 'No?' he said, and smiled. 'At any rate, he admired you greatly.' 'I admired his verses,' I said. 'Yes, of course.'
'One of your lines ran in my head as you were reading your general's dispatch.' I quoted it to him.
'Do you know,' he said, 'I can't for the life of me remember the next line. A poet who forgets his own verses – not, I assure you, a being you are often likely to encounter.'
'I'm afraid it's the only line of that poem I know. It was a girl who quoted it to me. The girl I'm in love with actually.'
'Ah, yes, my verses appeal to lovely girls. And to some boys also, I'm glad to say, even some lovely boys.' He laid his hand on my shoulder again, and squeezed it gently.
'I often think I should have died with Lucan. I'm rather ashamed I didn't. Well, I don't suppose it will be long now. Not after the decisions taken here tonight. Take care of yourself, and remember me. Get your girl to recite the rest of the poem. It was rather good, I think. Sad that I've forgotten it myself
That night Otho dictated to me for a long time, letters to the commander of the 14th legion, to Vespasian and to Mucianus. He spoke confidently of his expectation of victory and of how he looked forward to their meeting to discuss the government of the Empire.
But, every few minutes, between phrases, his eyes shifted and he looked into the night.
XXV
I do not know why I sent these last pages, with the record of that conversation with Caesius Bassus, to Tacitus. I regret it. I feel as if I had given something of myself away. But how can that matter? Do I care whether Tacitus thinks well or ill of me? I have no reason to. I am cast up here. He writes again that there is no reason why I should not return to Rome, now that law has been restored, and no one is condemned merely by the caprice of the Emperor. No doubt he speaks truth. He still does not understand that exile has become my choice – or my destiny.
Besides, what would I do in Rome? Who would I know? Who would remember me? Who would greet me kindly?
Even my friendship, such as it is, with Tacitus is one that can be maintained only at a distance, by post. With several hundred miles separating us, I can be amused by his narrow puritan censoriousness. It would bore and irritate me if we met and spent time together. That used not to be so; I was then delighted by his wit and intelligence. But now I could not abide his certainty of being always right, of being justified; I scorn his
