harvest.'
That is how money works, like all mysteries, through its initiates.
But not only Balbus saved me in this crisis, producing magic credit which enabled Agrippa to raise more troops, enabled me also to send out scores of agents into Antony's camp; Antony himself misplayed his hand.
He was in Rome a fortnight after I left the city. He left most of his troops at Tibur, but his bodyguard was still strong enough to overawe and frighten the disaffected. His temper was high, he arrived in liquor and stayed half- drunk for four days. He called a meeting of the Senate for the twenty-fourth, but failed to attend himself. Cicero (and others) let it be known that the consul was too drunk to be seen in public. As if that ever stopped Antony! I had better reason to know what prevented him. On the same day as he entered Rome my agents distributed leaflets among the men of the Martian legion; not only leaflets, as you may imagine. Maco himself had approached their camp and sought out old comrades among Antony's centurions. He dealt out gold and golden promises. Would they fight against Caesar's son? he asked those veterans of the Gallic War. Could they live with themselves if they destroyed their master's heir? He touched their hearts; he fed their appetites. The Martian legion declared for me and shut themselves up in Alba Fucens. With one stroke, while Antony dined in Rome, I had retrieved what seemed lost less than two weeks before.
My position was still dangerous. All that year I diced with death and dishonour – which was worse. (Remember, my sons, that your actions must always be such as will permit you to live with self-approbation.) Antony let everyone know – he shouted it to the rooftops – that I had been guilty of what he chose to call illegality. I was innocent, for legality was nowhere to be found that year. Legality rests on the point of the sword; when swords are raised against each other, legality floats into the heavens to await the decision of the Gods. If no one can enforce the laws, all strong men assume the right to do so. It is inevitable. Antony however played high; I admired him for that. On the twenty-eighth the Senate at last met. His creature, Q. Rufius Calenus, was ready to bring in a bill denouncing me as a public enemy. Caesar himself had been so denounced – and had scattered his accusers before him. Conscious of the rediscovered loyalty of the Martian legion, of the success Agrippa was meeting in recruitment, I could afford to regard the threat with equanimity.
Then Antony's nerve failed him. He dared not press the charge against me. That was prudent, for my agents were doing their work among his legions. They played on their natural reluctance to take up arms against me. Caesar, Caesar, Caesar… the magic word ran round the camp till Antony pressed his fingers in his ears against it. Yet he too was caught; he too aspired to share Caesar's legacy; he himself depended on my father's glory. We were linked in a dance to a ghostly tune.
He marched against Decimus Brutus, determined to dislodge him from Cisalpine Gaul. I sighed in relief; he had turned to his true work. Meanwhile the IVth legion followed the example of the Martian and crossed to my side. I had got myself the most formidable army in Italy: five legions, two of Campanian veterans and one recruited in Etruria by Agrippa, as well as the IVth and the Martian. Now, with deliberation, hoping to avoid battle, ready to make a show of it, I marched northward, in Antony's wake.
It was blue-cold in the mountains, a biting north wind. For a few days I felt I had no control over this force which I had called into being, and which was growing every day. (Two more legions were on their way to join me from Macedonia.) I caught a chill, fell into fever, was carried two days in a litter over the mountains, lay sweating and shivering in a mountain hut, while my disordered mind replayed the events of the last half-year. Yet, even so deranged by wild fancies and feverish dreams, I never doubted my future. The star I had seen rise over the mountains of Illyria beckoned me on. No man can hope to triumph unless he is willing to be the instrument of the divine powers that shape this world. Julius appeared to me in delirium, in a bloody and torn toga. He urged me on, applauded what I had achieved, and commended my decision (which Agrippa had so fiercely opposed) to acquiesce in the election of his vilest assassin, Casca, to the tribunate. 'Revenge is a meal to be eaten cold.' Casca's hour would strike when he felt more secure.
In Rome, as one year passed into another, Cicero addressed the Senate, unwearied. The body of his speech was devoted to my praise. The honey with which I had coated his vanity was well worth what it cost me.
'I know intimately the young man's every feeling,' he said, lying. 'Nothing is dearer to him than the Free State, nothing has more weight with him than your influence, nothing is more desired by him than the good opinion of virtuous men, nothing more delightful to him than true glory… I will venture even to pledge my word that Gaius Caesar will always be as loyal a citizen as he is to-day, and as our most fervent wishes and prayers desire.'
In the midst of his self-deception he spoke truth. I have always been a loyal citizen.
Cicero had lost all the discretion with which he had guarded his person for the last fifty years. He upbraided Antony in language that only victory could justify. He spoke warmly of me, but his praise was as insincere as his invective was heart-felt. My own heart responded less than it would now – youth is more impervious to approbation, which it takes as its due, than old age is – and my mind stood detached. But what Cicero said worked. The Senate clamoured to be permitted to honour me. They babbled in echo of Cicero: 'What godlike youth has come to save the Republic!' Maecenas said to me: 'There's not a man there would not slit your throat with a smile on his face.' I played my hand on his. They voted me a senator. (It is therefore, my sons, now forty years that I have been a member of the Conscript Fathers, the most noble assembly in the history of the world, even if its conduct and collective wisdom sometimes fall short of what they should be; never neglect to honour the Senate.) They associated me with the consuls Hirtius and Pansa in command of the army against Antony; they granted me the imperium of a pro-praetor.
'So far, so good,' Maecenas said. 'We are no longer adventurers, my dear.' He poured me a cup of wine – I added water. 'Let us drink to what we have been.' 'Let us drink rather to where we have arrived,' I said. Agrippa raised his goblet: 'The future'.
('Oh dear,' Maecenas sighed, 'crowsfeet, the failure of performance before the death of desire, yes, ducky, the future.')
'To our glorious leader', said P. Salvidienus Rufus. Is it hindsight that lets me believe I cast him a look pregnant with scepticism and irony?
Antony sent me a letter:
Octavius: what fool's game are you playing? I don't know whether to be more amazed by your rash folly or by your ability to persuade these deluded half-witted soldiers to follow you. I don't ask for gratitude, but I must point out to you that you have chosen to associate yourself with those who murdered Julius (whom you now call your father) in the vilest way imaginable, against me, who served Julius loyally and serve his memory and his cause still. Don't you realize, you poor boy, that your new chums are as twisted as a dragon's tail? They approached Caesar pretending to be friends; I have held his blood-stained toga in my hand. Some of them owed everything, including their lives, to Caesar. Yet they did for him. They owe nothing to you. What sort of fate do you imagine they are cooking up? Haven't you heard what the old verbal balloon Cicero is crowing? The kid must be flattered, decorated… and bumped off? And I hear you address that old goat as Father too, you must be out of your mind. If you don't get yourself out of that galley bloody well straightaway, I'll think you a half-wit yourself and will offer thanks to Mars and Bacchus that I had sense enough to have nothing to do with you. But if you do get shot of them and bring your legions back to me, I'll see you're all right. As it is, laddie, you're in the minestrone, and it's beginning to bubble.
'In character,' I said, 'spluttering, bombastic and on edge.' 'What'll you say to him?' 'Oh, I shan't reply.'
War engages the full faculties of man, but in memory only odd discordant moments emerge. Of that sharp scrambling campaign to which historians give the name Mutina, I remember very little. Decimus Brutus was shut
