and his. Will historians see in my victory only the success of my own faction? Certainly, again when I recall our landing at Brindisi, three young men -myself, Maecenas and Agrippa – come to claim my inheritance and ready to impose ourselves on the Republic and seize it by the throat, I can't deny that the word 'faction' applies equally to us. Weren't we indeed young and unscrupulous gangsters? 'At my own expense' is disingenuous. Ultimately true of course, but when I think how I crawled before Balbus and Atticus, begging for loans, of how I was granted them with nothing but my name, my ardour and my determination as collateral, well… yet I could hardly say 'with bankers' money', could I? Some may also think the claim that the people elected me a triumvir a bit on the rich side. We imposed the triumvirate after all by force of arms. Gangsterism again. Nevertheless the essence of this first Article in my Res Gestae is fair: I did liberate the Republic from the domination of faction; ultimately any power I have exercised has derived from the General Will. Article II: 'Those who assassinated my father I drove into exile, avenging their crimes by due process of law; and afterwards when they waged war against the State, I conquered them twice upon the battlefield.'
I see Cicero in the Senate, his hands flapping like great crow's wings as his eloquence soared, crying out in that seductive voice, from which all the skill of elocution teachers never quite removed the accent of Arpinum, that 'no one but Antony and a few like him regretted Caesar's death'. But I avenged it, and destroyed those who called themselves 'Liberators'. Yet had Caesar lived, what would have become of me? Would I have remained his heir? Suppose he had had his Parthian War, and suppose he had triumphed there – and he might well have done, for only Caesar had military genius enough to make that a possibility (a view I remember expressing to Antony's fury when I was trying to dissuade him from his Parthian War), suppose then he had done so… he would have wintered in Alexandria, with Cleopatra. He was already dictator for life. That Parthian victory would have completed the divorce from reality which all remarked in his last months. Would he then have acknowledged Caesarion as his son? I fear he would. He would have accepted the crown he had so reluctantly declined on the Lupercal, and installed Cleopatra as Queen. Besides, Caesar was never comfortable with me. He suspected mockery; he once threatened to deprive me of Maecenas: he 'would despatch that scented dandy to the galleys', he snapped, though who was Caesar to speak against dandies, or scent for that matter? When he died, I was horrified, chilled by fear and the manner of his death; but when I fully realized that he had been removed, my heart expanded, I felt elated, I saw the world open before me. Yes, like Cicero, I rejoiced, though I had the good sense to do so in secret. Caesar dazzled me. I never liked him. I would have feared him if there had not been always something a little absurd, something theatrical in his manner.
My cat, black, long-furred, yellow-eyed, closest friend of my old age, whose love for me is untainted by thought of possession, who acknowledges obligations for no more than their due, has just leapt on to my lap, digging her claws lightly into my shoulder, thrusting her face into mine, purring with the deep pleasure of intimate contact. My cat, who is my equal as she is the equal of Gods, who neither fears nor resents me, demands no more than I am happy to give. I had such a cat as a child. Then, for all my long middle years of struggle and violence and the search for power, no cat. Now, old, I resume the perfect love one can share with an animal. How delicate and refined her beauty; how noble and independent her spirit; how remarkable her ability to combine liberty with conditional dependence. My perfect companion has four feet and no scolding or complaining tongue. Article III tells of my wars; Article IV of my dusty triumphs and ovations, of how there were led before my chariot nine kings or children of kings. It is both rash and salutary thus to debase greatness. Article V recounts how I declined the dictatorship offered me by the Senate and the People. That was in the year when Lucius Arruntius and Marcus Marcellus were consuls. I had been in Sicily, settling colonies of retired soldiers, when word was brought of riots in Rome. The Tiber had flooded the low-lying quarters of the Field of Mars. The corn supply had failed. Speculators, a tribe I abominate, were holding on to such corn as there was, to drive the price up. The mob threatened to burn down the Senate House unless I was made dictator. Lucius Arruntius always disliked me; he was one of those aristocrats who felt he should rule the State and sighed for the old days before the Wars. Nor was he appeased by the consulship I had arranged for him. Unlike some of the well-born boobies, he had sense enough to realize the office had become largely honorific. But when he heard the mob caterwauling round the Curia, and began to feel his limbs loose in his sockets, he squawked loudly enough for my help and endorsed their cry that I should be dictator. He promised them with trembling lips that he would urge it on me, and when I declined broke into degrading sobs. But I wasn't having it. I had seen the effect of Julius' perpetual dictatorship, and I wasn't going to be caught the same way. Instead, I said loftily that it wasn't necessary. I would however take over the supervision of the grain supply. I identified the speculators and gave them a choice which didn't appeal to them: they could relinquish their hoards voluntarily, or they could prepare for confiscation and a long sojourn on a lonely island. They then co-operated in exemplary fashion and the crisis was over.
The nobility several times tried to cajole me into accepting great and open powers. I was too wary for them. I knew that the appearance of power is more deeply resented than its actuality. So Article VI informs the People that I three times declined to be named 'sole guardian of laws and morals with supreme authority'. Naturally I wasn't going to fall into that trap. I told them I couldn't accept an office 'contrary to the traditions of our ancestors'. You can always defeat conservatives by an appeal to tradition. Article VII lists my honours and membership of sacred orders. I allowed Lepidus to retain the office of Pontifex Maximus till his death, when I assumed it myself. It has its uses. Subsequent Articles VIII, IX, X, XI and XII tell of the honours paid me by the Senate and the Roman People, of my reforms of the Senate and of the Censuses I took. At the last census there were almost five million Roman citizens. Unlike Julius I have thought it wise not to cheapen this distinction by granting it indiscriminately to provincials. Of these honours I am proudest of the Senate's decree that an altar of the Augustan Peace should be inaugurated. Let Article XIII speak for itself: 'The temple of Janus Quirinus, which our ancestors desired to be closed whenever peace with victory was secured by sea and by land throughout the entire empire of the Roman People, and which before I was born is recorded to have been closed only twice since the founding of the city, was during my principate three times ordered by the Senate to be closed.' I cannot bring myself to write of Article XIV. It tells of my sons Gaius and Lucius, for whom the first volume of these memoirs was written… Article XV records the sums I have given as donations to the Roman plebs. No man has given more money to more people than I. Article XVI records how I reimbursed municipalities for lands I assigned to colonies of soldiers. No one before me thought to do this, not Sulla, not Pompey, nor Julius. I am surprised that Pompey did not. Articles XVII and XVIII tell how on several occasions I came to the assistance of the Treasury with my own money. I defy historians to impugn this record. Subsequent Articles XIX, XX andXXI record my building works. My vaunt is that I found Rome of brick and left it of marble. I am not however proud of what I record in the next two Articles: the gladiatorial shows I presented. These have become, alas, an inescapable feature of Roman life. The princeps who neglects to provide them will invite disaffection. Article XXIV records that after the war with Antony, 'I replaced in the temples of all the communities of Asia the ornaments which my opponent in the war had seized for his private use after despoiling the temples.' That was typical of Antony of course; he couldn't see anything pretty or precious without wanting to lay his hands on it. He had no sense of his own dignity, and, what was worse, no sense of what we owe the provincials. That can be put quite simply. We owe them respect. We must respect their traditions and cults as we respect our own. It is right and proper in itself; it is also the only way to reconcile them to our empire. On the other hand, 'eighty silver statues of myself, represented on foot, on horseback, or in a chariot, stood in the city; these I myself removed, and out of the money therefrom I set up golden offerings in the temple of Apollo in my own name and in the name of those who had honoured me with the statues.' This action appeared to me so obviously demanded by common sense that there is really nothing to be proud of in having performed it. Yet, again, I learned from the deplorable example set me by Julius. It pleased his vanity to have Asiatics worship him as a God. What tushery. Men are not Gods; though I have been solemnly religious it has sometimes crossed my mind that Gods may not be Gods either. Yet that is not quite true. It is a matter I discussed often with Virgil, the most profoundly religious man of my acquaintance… He said to me, I remember, 'Do not let doubts and discrepancies perturb you. No man who has reflected wisely on these matters can doubt that the world is formed, guided, in some mysterious way governed, by potent and immortal spirits. We, in our human ignorance, choose to identify particular elements of these spirits, and give them names, and even human attributes. There may be no Apollo; there is a life-giving and life-enhancing force which our Apollo nevertheless well represents. It is in our nature to endow the Apollonian or Dianic spirit with personality, to make up stories about the Gods we have partly invented, partly perhaps, in dim and shadowy manner, recalled from the past adventures of our immortal souls. When you are in doubt, my friend' – and in memory I dwell lovingly on the tender note which Virgil gave that simple form of address – 'turn back to Plato. Read 'The Phaedo' and ponder on the great argument for immortality there given to Socrates. Read 'The Republic' too, and particularly the myth of the cave. Our knowledge of the
