I was not disappointed when Caesar informed me that he would not require me to accompany him to Africa, though it was naturally irritating to learn that many were muttering that I had fallen out of the Dictator's favour. That wasn't, of course, the case. Caesar made it clear that he was expecting me to supervise his political interests at home.
"I would rather have those whom I don't trust with me, under my eye, and leave behind those whom I trust absolutely," he said.
I acquiesced proudly, though I extracted from him the promise that I should rejoin the army as soon as he felt my services were not absolutely necessary in Rome. After all, I am a soldier first and foremost, and no old warhorse is happy to be out of hearing of the trumpet.
Apart altogether from my public duties, I had other reasons for being content to remain in the city. My knee was still troubling me, and the Greek doctor whom I consulted advised that prolonged rest and regular anointing with a compound of almonds and crocodile oil would be the best treatment.
"If you don't give it time to recover, my lord, you will be a hopeless cripple in ten years," he warned.
Then my father's health was declining, and it was natural that I should wish to attend his deathbed. We had never been close, for he was a man of old-fashioned rigour and considerable stupidity, who had never understood my more audacious flights or had any sympathy with my eagerness to taste life to the full. But I honoured him and was satisfied that I had never failed in my duty towards him. My mother too was pleased to have me at home, finding my presence a great comfort, as my poor father grew ever more capricious and absurdly demanding. Indeed it was fortunate that I was there, since I was able to thwart a scheme he had devised to leave almost half of his property to "the common good of the Roman people". The deluded old man believed that this would secure him the fame which he had not achieved in life — as if this could possibly matter to him when he was dead, while it would have been a serious inconvenience to us (or so it seemed then, Artixes) to be deprived of our rightful inheritance.
Finally, Clodia having departed into the dark chamber of her own death-journey, I was agreeably engaged in an affair with a young Phrygian dancer, a creature of unquenchable gaiety and acrobatic inventiveness in the art of love. I would certainly have been loth to leave Rome before I had exhausted this young person's considerable charms, which seemed to me to combine the ardour of Clodius with the seductive sluttishness of Cleopatra.
So it was with equanimity that I said "Farewell" to Caesar, and it was in truth a relief to be free of his overpowering and demanding presence.
Rather to my surprise I found myself being cultivated by Cicero. I have mentioned him several times in this memoir, Artixes, and generally, I think, disparagingly. Well, there was good reason for that, but it occurs to me that I may have conveyed an inadequate impression of this remarkable man. For he was remarkable: one of the few men in Rome to have achieved the highest position in the State without the advantage of either birth or great wealth (though he acquired the latter, of course).
He was now, I suppose, about sixty. (I have, of course, no works of reference to hand and must rely on my memory and my impressions.) His great days were behind him. It was almost twenty years since he had had his finest hour, when, as consul, he exposed and destroyed Catiline's conspiracy. He had bored everyone ever since with his accounts of how he had saved the State. It was indeed one of those triumphs which had ill consequences for their author. Cicero had put Roman citizens to death without trial, and this crime pursued him all the rest of his days. That was what his enemies — and his sharp tongue had won him many — recalled when he boasted of his achievement. It had won him the fierce enmity of my adored Clodius, and so, as a young man, I never heard good of Cicero. But I have already recounted what Clodia said about the man who defended the murderer of her brother and our lover.
Nevertheless no one has ever denied Cicero's intellect, and few his charm. When he set himself to please, he usually succeeded. Even Caesar, who distrusted him on account of his vanity and indecision, delighted in his company. And I confess that, despite all that I knew and all that lay horridly between us, I was flattered to be invited to his dinner-table.
He alternated that spring between excitement and depression. He knew that he had blundered at the commencement of the civil wars when, as a result of his vanity and poor judgment, he had attached himself to Pompey and the conservatives in the Senate.
"I risked life and property for their cause," he said, "and yet, you know, I was never appreciated by them. I was excluded from Pompey's council, though I had greater and deeper experience than any who surrounded him. Of course Pompey was ever easily influenced. All the same you would not have thought he could be such a fool as to ignore the value of my advice. But there it is. He was a great man, but limited. He was always conscious of his intellectual inferiority to me, and, I suppose, also to Caesar."
He often spoke in this vein. It was clear, too, that he still believed he had a political future. I could have disillusioned him, but it seemed more polite, and perhaps more useful, to listen to his speculations.
"Caesar has achieved much," he said. "The question is what does he intend to do with the power he has accumulated. I realise naturally that this matter cannot be resolved till these wretched wars have been brought to a successful conclusion. But that can't be long now. I have a great respect for Cato, but" — he poured wine and sniggered — "only someone with as little self-knowledge as that dear man could suppose him to be a match for Caesar on the field of battle. So Cato will lose in Africa, and then Caesar will turn on Gnaeus Pompey, who, between you and me, my dear, is little more than a brigand, and drive him out of his Spanish fastness, and then… and then, where shall we be?"
"Who can tell?" I said, knowing I was not supposed to supply an answer.
"The first essential is that the Republic should be reconstituted. I am sure Caesar understands this, aren't you? After all, what else can he do? Rome will not tolerate a Perpetual Dictator, the government of a single person. I realise that he may wish to be granted the dictatorship for an indefinite period, that's natural enough, but equally, it must be largely an honorific, at most supervisory, title. If we are to have the government of a single person, what should we call him? A king? We Romans will never tolerate monarchy. Caesar would have to be mad to suppose we might. And one thing we all know about Caesar is that he is not mad. Or is he, young Brutus?"
"You have already answered that question, sir," I replied.
"Quite so. But we must consider that these terrible wars have deprived us of many able men, and torn the heart out of many noble families. The list of the illustrious dead is long and melancholy. Moreover discord, resentment, and the desire for revenge govern many of their heirs. How are the parties to be reconciled? Where shall we find the means of establishing a new concord of the different orders in the State? How shall we reconcile the demands of the victorious soldiery with the rights of landed proprietors? What steps are necessary to re-establish the authority of the consuls? How do we govern this great Empire which we have won? These are all matters which will perplex us during the period of arduous reconstruction which must follow the end of the wars. You, Decimus Brutus, are deservedly deep in Caesar's confidence. What does he plan? How does he propose to. set about this reconstruction? For my part, I cannot see how it can be achieved unless he is prepared to surrender power and authority back to those bodies which properly exercise them. You cannot, it seems to me, perpetuate a system evolved to answer a crisis when that crisis has itself disappeared."
"No doubt Caesar has given consideration to these matters," I said. "They are what must be discussed. I do not think I am at liberty to expatiate further."
The position was delicate, you see. The questions Cicero raised were proper and must indeed have occurred to anyone who had reflected on the situation. I knew, however, that Caesar shied away from exploring them. He preferred always to act according to the promptings of instinct. He was fond of remarking that "Decisions are best made when they force themselves upon you; that is, when the hour is ripe."
But it would have been impolitic to hint in this gathering that we (Caesar's friends, that is) had really no idea of how the Constitution should be reformed post-bellum.
"The question surely is whether, or to what extent, something which has been shattered can ever be repaired?"
The speaker was scarcely more than a boy, an adolescent, whose chin seemed innocent of the razor. He was slight, but compactly made. He had clear grey eyes, sweetly curving lips, and light hair which flopped over his left eye. He spoke in a cool voice, and did not look at the company but seemed to be examining his finely formed and shapely arm which rested on the back of the couch on which he lay. I had arrived late that evening, having been detained on a matter of urgent business, and had not been introduced to him; Cicero, like many egotists, was often careless in his observation of elementary good manners. The boy had looked at me two or three times in the course of our supper, through long eyelashes, smiling as if he knew me and we had an understanding denied to the others present. I wondered who he was, and found myself interested.
Cicero was surprised by his interjection.
"What do you mean?" he said.
The boy hesitated. His tongue stroked his lower lip and he kept his eyes fixed on his arm (golden-brown, shadow-dappled, smooth as alabaster).
"It's presumptuous of me, I know. I've so little experience. But if it was the demands of Empire which broke the traditional structure of the Republic, then I don't see how that can be restored, unless we were to abandon Empire, which is unthinkable."
Cicero pressed the tips of his fingers together, moved them apart, brought them together two or three times, elevated his chin, held the attention of all.
"Hmm," he said, "those are deep thoughts for one so young, and not unintelligent, not unintelligent by any means, no. Let me see now.. Yes. I think I see where you are at error — error which is, as you sagely suggest yourself, perhaps inescapable on account of your inexperience. (And let me say in passing that I commend you for admitting your inexperience, which is a fault to which the young rarely confess, though we might all agree that it vitiates any opinion they might express on any subject.) So, my dear boy, your error consists, in my opinion, for what it is worth," he lowered his chin and smiled on us, "not an inconsiderable worth, I am perhaps entitled to believe on account of the encomia which have been lavished on me during my long and not unproductive career — very well then, your error consists in taking a purely mechanistic view of public affairs. You concentrate on the structure of the Constitution, and observe how it came under strain. But in doing so, you neglect to consider the far more important and significant question, which is not 'How?' but 'Why?' And they are not, give me leave to assure you, by any means the same thing. We can easily see how things fall apart; but why? That goes deeper, and perhaps it requires the wisdom which only age can bring even to commence to offer an answer. So, I must say that in my view we are concerned principally with a question of morality. Yes, morality, not mechanics. The sickness of the Republic lies not in its institutions — institutions which have so gloriously stood the test of time — but in the men who inhabit them. Selfishness now reigns where zeal for the public good used to flourish. We are suffering, that is to say, from what I shall call 'individualism'. What do I mean by that? Simply this: the readiness of men to respond to any public matter with the question, 'What's in it for me? Where may I find personal advantage?' rather than the question that so nobly informed the minds of our forefathers, 'What does Rome require of me?'"
He paused, looked round the table, fixing his gaze on each of us and holding it, till the other turned away, perhaps in embarrassment. Even I found myself lowering my eyes, but when I looked up I saw that the youth who had raised the matter was returning Cicero's scrutiny with a calm and candid look. A smile played around his lips, and he appeared eager to hear what the veteran orator had to impart. There was no insolence in his smile, and I do not believe that even Cicero felt any, but it was Cicero who broke off the exchange and, with an air of urgency, resumed his discourse.
"What does Rome require of me? That is the question I have put to myself throughout my long and not inglorious career. It was in full consciousness of the import of that question that I confronted the information brought to me concerning the foul conspiracy of Catiline. If each of us asks himself that question, we shall know how we should conduct ourselves. This vice, which I call 'individualism', is in my view Greek, not Roman. Let us extirpate it from our public life, and then we shall resume our antique Roman virtue. Individualism is the curse of our age and the occasion of our present discontents…"
His hand shook as he raised his goblet of wine, and he wiped first his lips, then his temples, with a napkin.
For my part, it seemed that he had spoken more dangerously and more rashly than he knew. This term, "individualism", which he had coined: who incarnated it but Caesar?
The party broke up. I contrived to attach myself to the youth who had aroused my interest on account of his demeanour and intelligence.
"I should know who you are," I said, as we stepped into a summer night that was now cool. "But I am sorry to say I don't."
"That's natural," he said. "I was a child when we last met, and of course I have changed. Since then, I have been away. But I know you, and have heard my uncle speak warmly of your talents and character."
"Your uncle?"
"Caesar. I am Gaius Octavius Thurinus. My mother is Caesar's sister."
"But of course," I said. "Forgive me, but you were indeed a child, if an attractive one, when I last saw you, and now you are a youth — and even more attractive."
"Oh," he said, not resisting when I took his arm, "it is kind of you to say so. I have been cultivating Cicero. This term he uses, 'individualism'. I find that interesting."
"Cicero takes a Romantic idea of the past," I said. "In my opinion men have always been quick to fight for what they see as their own personal interests."
"Oh yes, I understand that, but nevertheless I think he may be right when he says that the pursuit of self-interest dominates public life, to a greater extent than it used to."
"Perhaps, but you are to remember that the competition for honour and glory has always dominated men's minds. Which of us does not seek personal glory?"
"I am sure you are right," he said, "and yet there must be a means surely of harnessing this desire to the public good; and may not Cicero be correct in saying that our ancestors found such a means, and we have lost it?"
Over the next weeks I saw much of young Octavius. I could not see enough indeed. It is not too much to say that I fell in love with him. I was charmed in equal measure by his beauty and his intelligence. Yet it was something beyond these qualities which so attracted me; even at his most affectionate, I was aware of the distance which he kept between himself and the rest of mankind — even a lover. It was a distance I longed to bridge, and my failure to do so intensified my passion. Even as I kissed his lips and felt his arms steal round my neck and his smooth limbs intertwine with mine, I was conscious that something of him stood apart, that he never surrendered himself even to the pleasures in which he delighted, that he was always observing all that we did, and exercising judgment in his uncanny detachment. It was this quality which so inflamed me. In love we always seek possession, and yet the closer I held him to me, the less I was able to take possession of his essential being.
At one moment he seemed only a boy delighting in his beauty, and in the admiration which he aroused in me. Certainly, he sought admiration. He would lie naked, inviting me to stroke his shapely thighs (which he sha ved and oiled with great attent iveness), murmuring as my lips moved over his flat smooth belly, caressing my neck and shoulders and running his fingers down the line of my back. His joy was real as mine, and yet he remained aloof, superior, remote, as if he observed all at a great distance. Even Clodia could not surpass his ability to tantalise a lover.
The philosophers declare that the love between a man and a youth may be the noblest of emotions. They assert that the mature lover schools his friend in wisdom and virtue. I know the theory well. But it was not like that with Octavius, and I believe it rarely is. I was enthralled, and, being enthralled, diminished. If I were to approach Artixes (to whom I shall of course not read these pages of my memoir) as I approached
Octavius, then I might indeed enjoy what philosophers promise. But Octavius, though a youth, seemed older and wiser than I. I was for those weeks his slave, as I had been Clodia's.
I neglected my wife for his sake. Longina was the daughter of Caius Longinus Cassius. I had married her a few months previously at Caesar's urging, to cement, as he put it, Cassius' reconciliation to our party. She was not much more than a child, charming, vivacious, ignorant, and, I thought then, vicious. She had little to offer one who had enjoyed the embraces of Clodia, and I soon found she bored me. She adored dice and gossip, and she had a circle of dissolute boys of her own age, who had, as my mother would have put it, more money than sense. I was soon convinced that she betrayed me with more than one of them. I suppose it is fair to admit that I bored her also. She could be a charming companion, and she was certainly very pretty, but she never, at that period, said anything that remained in my mind for longer than the time she took to utter it.
Nevertheless one good thing came out of my marriage: I learned to know my new father-in-law, Cassius. Cassius had always been an object of some suspicion to us Caesarians. We respected his military record, of course; it was Cassius who, as praetor, had extracted the remnant of Crassus' army from the disaster of Carrhae. That was no mean achievement. We knew too that, if Pompey had followed his advice, our campaign in Greece would have been even more perilous and difficult than was the case. But few trusted him; his sardonic tongue wounded easily, and, it seemed, with pleasure. Even Caesar was not comfortable in his presence, complaining of his "lean and hungry look". He tried to laugh off the unease Cassius occasioned. "Let me have men about me that are fat."
Now Cassius said to me:
"Has it occurred to you that the State is out of balance? I yield to none in my admiration for Caesar's genius, and I know that you, Decimus, are his most loyal adherent. But… I belong to the Epicurean persuasion, you know, and we believe that there must be a measure in all things; nothing to excess. Isn't Caesar's preponderance in the State somewhat excessive? His glory outshines all others. The splendour of his sun casts all others into the shadows. How long do you suppose Roman noblemen, reared, as we all are, in a tradition which lays such great stress on virtue and personal achievement, will be content to lie in obscurity as a result of the light that is concentrated on Caesar?"
"These are dangerous thoughts."
"But they are only thoughts, words taking the air, philosophical speculations, no more than that." He poured wine.
"Cicero," I said, "has been talking of the dangers of what he terms 'individualism'. Are you saying the same thing?"
"Cicero, let us agree, is an old windbag. We have always striven to excel, and what is that strife but the individualism he has now discovered? But formerly, the contest was one in which any man of noble birth might hope to triumph. It was agreed that that triumph should not be enduring; that others must have their turn in the limelight, while men of outstanding merit rested in the background ready to resume their labours if the State required their service. But now? Things are different, aren't they? Caesar's pre-eminence is such that we find ourselves asking whether we serve Rome or Caesar."
"Young Octavius" — to my annoyance I felt myself blushing as I pronounced his name — "suggested to me that our ancestors found a means of harnessing the desire to excel to the public good, which we, in our generation, have lost."
"That young man would be wise not to let his uncle hear him speak in that vein. But he is right. The question is: what should be done? Do you think, Decimus, that it might be possible to persuade Caesar to retire from public life? There is, after all, the example of Sulla."
"Sulla is not a name to mention to Caesar, especially not as a pattern he might follow."
"I understand that. I am not speaking idly, Decimus, as Cicero now speaks. Caesar is heading for trouble. The more he separates himself from his natural peers, the more he stands alone in his glory, the more surely he breeds discontent. The last public service Caesar could do would be to withdraw, to devote his talents to the practice of literature perhaps. After all, he often says that that is his chief joy in life. I don't believe him, of course; everyone knows he prefers women and war. But that is no reason why he shouldn't be taken at his word. I was never worried by Pompey's pre-emin ence because I always knew that Pompey was more show than substance. But Caesar is a different matter. His pre-eminence is real. That is why it is dangerous: for him and for Rome."
"What do you mean, Cassius?"
"He will return victorious from Africa. He will then go to Spain and extirpate the last remnants of armed opposition. What will he do then? There are those who say he wishes to call himself King."
Dusk was falling. We were in Cassius' villa in the Alban Hills. A fierce winter wind threw red-tinted clouds across the sky. The tops of the pine trees bent before it. Far below one could see the wind troubling the waters of the lake. Cassius threw another log of beech-wood on the fire. It spat and crackled; sparks of light danced and died away.
"A new year," Cassius said. "What will it bring?"
"Caesar would never accept a crown," I said.
"No? You think not? I wish I could be as certain. Cicero says that Caesar will throw off the mask of clemency when he has finally disposed of all his enemies in arms. Do you believe that?"
"No," I said, "I don't. Caesar's clemency is not assumed as a disguise or as a necessary policy. Say what you will against Caesar, censure his pride; nevertheless recognise that his impulse to clemency is innate. He is clement by nature."
"He is clement," Cassius said, "because he feels so great a sense of his own superiority. It is a means of registering that superiority. To revenge himself on his enemies would be, in his eyes, to lower himself to their level. Yes, I understand that."
"That may be so. But I also know that this impulse was ^ — fortified by his own youthful experiences in the days of Sulla's proscriptions. I have often heard him say that history proves that by practising cruelty, you earn nothing but hatred. 'Nobody,' he says, 'ever achieved an enduring victory by such means except Sulla, and Sulla is a man I do not propose to imitate.'"
(If I read this passage to Artixes, he will certainly answer that Caesar practised abominable cruelties in Gaul.)
"All right," Cassius said, "I accept that. But do you know what Cicero is also saying: that it is a disgrace to live under Caesar's rule. He has even been heard to mutter that he wished Caesar would persecute him, so that he might regain his self-respect."
"In my opinion, Cicero would in the last resort abandon his self-respect more readily than his comfort and security."
"You are right there, Decimus. Indeed he has already done so, which accounts for his grumpiness. Well, we shall not settle these matters this afternoon, but remember: I do not think things can continue as they are. I fear we are to be confronted with the choice between tyranny and anarchy, and I do not know which is the more to be feared. I have heard Caesar quote Euripides: 'Is crime consonant with nobility? Then noblest is the crime of tyranny.' It is a temptation which I fear he will find irresistible. And then where shall we be? Meanwhile, let's to supper. I trust my daughter is conducting herself to your satisfaction. She needs a husband's discipline, having been spared a father's on account of my long absences. And, Decimus, keep a tight hold of young Octavius. That friendship you have established may serve us well."
If only he knew, I thought. Perhaps he did, and did not care.
Word came the next month that Caesar had destroyed his enemies in Africa. Even those who were hostile to Caesar rejoiced, since Cato and the other commanders had allied themselves to King Juba of Numidia and even gone so far as to propose to surrender an imperial province to the barbarian King. Cato, either fearing Caesar's vengeance or disdaining the clemency which he would have received as an insult, fell on his sword. I could not regard this as other than a satisfactory conclusion to a foolish life. Ironically, many received it rather as proof of Cato's superior and antique virtue. For my part, I have never admired suicides, though I know this is an unfashionable opinion. It pleased me, however, that Octavius was of my mind.
"I can't see why people praise suicides. It's living that takes courage. Not to give up. I shall never never give up."
I believed him. I still do, now when the temptation of suicide is powerful. So easy, I think, to despise and resist that temptation, to condemn the act, from a position of security and comfort. But now… to choose my own way, rather than to expose myself to the humiliation of whatever death is determined for me? And yet… I see Octavius touch his upper lip with his tongue in that perhaps nervous gesture of his, and hear his cold, clear voice: "… not to give up. I shall never never give up." We discussed it further, I recall. He suggested that it was time we put away what he called "the dramatic affectations of the old Republic. A man is but a man," he said. "He should not see himself as a tragic figure. Keep such gestures for the stage. Life is not a play or drama."
Can he really, so young, pretty and untried, have said all that, brooded on such matters?
Are his words a comfort to me now or a reproach?