Caesar returned from Africa and celebrated four Triumphs in a single month to commemorate his victories in Gaul, Egypt, Pontus and Africa. This was a statement of his unprecedented glory. Of course, the first three should have been celebrated long before, if the exigencies of civil war had not prevented it. But he was pleased to group them together in this way. The month of holiday delighted the people and confirmed them in their belief that Caesar was like no other man who had ever lived. After all, Triumphs are rare. A single Triumph has conventionally been regarded as the apogee of the most illustrious career. This concatenation of Triumphs emphasised, as nothing else could — not even the dictatorship for life which he was soon to be voted — his extraordinary pre-eminence.
Naturally, as one of his chief and trusted lieutenants, my own part was conspicuous. Caesar was too wise and cautious to deny his generals their share in his glory. I rode immediately behind him in the first Triumph, which celebrated his conquest of Gaul. Indeed, I played my part in mitigating the effects of an unfortunate accident, which, had I not been at hand, might have turned into the sort of catastrophe which would have set the superstitious muttering about evil omens.
It happened like this. As Caesar rode through the Velabrum, serene amidst the cheering crowd, the axle of his triumphal chariot broke. The cart lurched to the left. Caesar was thrown sideways and would have toppled to the ground had I not spurred my horse forward and seized his shoulder, arresting his fall. The horses were reined in, and carpenters or wheelwrights (I am vague about tradesmen) hurried forward to repair the damage. The procession was halted for perhaps half an hour, to the consternation of those behind. Naturally Caesar thanked me for my help, but there was a note in his voice which I interpreted as resentful. It was as if my intervention had somehow detracted from his glory on this day of days, even though a moment's calm reflection should have told him that his glory would have been considerably more tarnished if he had taken a toss.
Nevertheless, that evening Casca remarked:
"Poor Mouse, haven't you yet understood that Caesar finds it easier to forgive his enemies than to thank his friends? But don't take it too seriously. I hear you have a charming little affair in train. Dangerous of course, but that adds to the charm."
After that unfortunate incident, which at least gave Caesar a good chance to hear some of the bawdy songs his legionaries were singing in his honour, he ascended to the Capitol between two lines of elephants, forty in number, which served as torch-bearers. The populace is always delighted by the sight of elephants, and there was certainly on this occasion something agreeably grotesque in seeing these great beasts lining the ascent with flaming flambeaux rising above their mighty shoulders. Generally, I am bored by elephants, partly perhaps because I know how ridiculously useless they are in war, when they are more likely to disrupt their own side than the enemy. But I have a theory that the populace's attachment to them is connected with the terror which the Carthaginian elephants reputedly inspired in our legions when first encountered; it satisfies the people to see a force which so alarmed their ancestors now tame and domesticated. I suppose that is fair enough; it is, you might say, a symbol of Rome's mastery of the world.
As I have already mentioned, the Gallic Triumph saw the end of Vercingetorix. I was sorry about that, and had indeed urged Caesar to consider breaking with tradition in order to spare his defeated but never dishonoured foe.
"It will do us credit in Gaul," I said, "and reconcile many to our rule. Moreover, Vercingetorix is a man of such courage and character that I really believe we could find a use for him. I know that you have been considering broadening the Senate to include provincials, even Gauls, among its members. Don't you think there is a case for making Vercingetorix one of them? He has, after all, now been held for several years here in the city, and though I haven't had conversation with him myself, I am told by those who have that he has divested himself of his barbarian habits of thought and behaviour, and come to appreciate something of the majesty of Rome. You have shown notable clemency to those Romans who viciously and without good reason set themselves against you. Mightn't it be a good idea to show the same generosity towards one who has claims to be regarded as the most formidable enemy you have defeated? After all, our concept of Empire is going to have to change, you've suggested as much yourself. Sooner or later, we shall find it necessary — and indeed desirable — to regard the conquered peoples as partners rather than subjected enemies."
I may say that I had got this idea from young Octavius, but I saw no reason to attribute it to him at that moment. If Caesar assented, then I would remark that my suggestion was the fruit of conversations I had had with his nephew; if he declined my proposal, then it would have been unfair to lay the responsibility at Octavius' door. Besides, I didn't want Caesar to suppose that I was capable of being influenced by one whom he thought of as a mere boy. He might have started to enquire more closely into the relations between us, and I had no fancy that he should do so.
"I had never thought of you as a political theorist, Mouse," he said. "Perhaps there is something in what you say, and it is certainly true that I intend to reform the Senate, though I don't remember discussing the matter with you. But your immediate proposition is absurd. Vercingetorix conducted a vicious and unprincipled war against us. Thousands of my soldiers lost friends and comrades as a result of his obduracy and treachery. I will not cheat them of the death they have a right to expect. Nor will I put other Roman lives at risk by doing anything which may encourage barbarian chieftains to think they can oppose our arms, and not suffer as a consequence. To spare Vercingetorix would be a terrible precedent, which would let loose a tide of bloodshed throughout the Empire. Do you not realise, you fool" — yes, that is how he addressed me, and it was at that moment that I understood the cold anger I had provoked — "do you not realise what holds the Empire together? I will tell you in one word, and that word is 'fear'. Perhaps a time may come when moods will have changed, and when the subject peoples will look on Rome as a Father. But not yet; now the most we can hope is that they will respect and fear us as their master. And even if that moment of which I speak arrives, is it not true that there is always something of fear even in the love which a son may feel for his father? Mouse, Mouse, two emotions rule the world and govern the ordinary man: fear and greed."
"What of love of virtue and glory? You cannot discount them."
"I spoke of ordinary men, not of the exceptional man. Yes, I myself…" he paused, drummed his fingers on the table and looked, for a long silence, into the distance as if great armies ranged themselves before him and he gazed on twilight battlefields disturbed only by the cries of the wounded and the circling of those birds of prey that feed on the dead. "Yes, Caesar may be driven by the loves you speak of, the desire for fame and glory, for that supreme virtue that stands aloof from the common run of curs, but they, snarling and cringing in the mire, what can they know of such things? No, fear and greed are the passions that make men what they are… There are moments also, at owl-light, when it seems to me that even Caesar's search for glory is but another, more rarefied expression of greed. It may be a form of fear also; for what would Caesar be without such glory — something which even he dare not contemplate? No, Mouse, Vercingetorix must die the death prepared and ordained for him. Besides," his voice lightened and he bestowed on me that smile which of all smiles could most surely charm men, "the mob might turn against me if I spared him. They like death and executions, haven't you noticed?"
He stood up, took my arm and led me to the window whence we could gaze down on the Forum, busy in preparation for tomorrow's Triumph. He pinched my ear.
"Mouse, there have been moments when I have hoped that you at least understood me. But it seems not. So let me speak plainly. You compare my determination that Vercingetorix should die with my clemency towards those senators and others who have opposed me in our terrible civil wars, and you confess yourself baffled. But consider that clemency: does it abate the fear I arouse in such men? Not at all. Almost the reverse. A Roman nobleman who owes his life to my clemency feels himself forever my inferior. He knows my greatness, because he can never forget that for one terrible long hour I held his life, his neck, between my thumb and forefinger. He has faced extinction at my hands. And he is made conscious of his inferiority by the action of my grace. But a barbarian cannot think like that. He is incapable of it, because his sense of honour is quite different from ours. He would merely think I had in some way gone soft, that Rome could therefore be opposed with impunity. The Roman senator, whom I spare, feels on the other hand in Caesar's clemency Caesar's strength. He stands rebuked by Caesar's refusal to punish him. Besides, Mouse, you must think of this. It is against the law to put Roman citizens to death without trial, and Cicero has never been forgiven for his decision to do so in the case of those who joined with Catiline. But it is different with barbarians, and so Vercingetorix must die."
They say he did so with great courage.
Was it further to mark out his pre-eminence that, in the Pontic Triumph which followed, Caesar ordered that one of the decorated wagons should bear, instead of the customary stage-set representing scenes from the war, merely the legend:
"I came, I saw, I conquered."
The simplicity of the sentiment struck awe and dread in the hearts of all.
I was exhausted when the month of Triumphs was over, for I had been entrusted with many onerous duties and grave responsibilities. These included the organisation of the Troy Game, that sham fight which is one of the oldest and most hallowed of our rituals. It was founded, we believe, by the Father of the Roman People, Aeneas himself, and only youths of noble birth are permitted to take part. There is naturally much competition for selection and this itself would impose a considerable burden on the Master of the Game, for there is no end to the attempts made by parents of candidates of dubious eligibility to persuade him that their son should qualify. I can tell you, I could have had my pick of more than a couple of dozen matrons in the week of selection. Even when the two troops have been chosen, the management of this mimic war is no easy task. It is amazing how even well-bred youths will cheat shamelessly to gain an advantage.
I am proud to be able to say that my mastership of the Troy Game was regarded as exemplary.
I was given one other task of a surprising nature in the weeks that followed the Triumphs. It was a time when Caesar was much occupied with administrative reforms (some of them ill-thought-out) and with the reform of the calendar which Alexandrian Greeks had persuaded him to be desirable. This had taken possession of his mind and was one of the few occasions when he risked unpopularity with the mob, which always hates change of this sort.
While Caesar was involved with these matters, Cicero took it upon himself to publish a eulogistic biography of Cato. I do not think this was intended as a deliberate act of provocation, though no one can be certain of the motives of a man as complicated as Cicero. On the one hand his relations with Caesar were friendly. They dined together, and Cicero rejoiced in the evident delight which Caesar took in his conversation, which, if you discounted the strain of persistent egotism (itself indeed at times almost endearing) was witty, agreeably malicious and superbly wide-ranging. It would indeed have been a dull man who resisted the charm of his historical and philosophical speculations. Of course there were many such dull men, who agreed with Mark Antony that the old man was a prosy bore; but Caesar was not one of them, and neither was I.
Moreover Caesar carried hi s admiration further. When Quin tus Ligarius was prosecuted for bearing arms against Caesar (this prosecution being a notable exception to Caesar's rule of general clemency), he invited Cicero to defend him. "Invited" is too weak an expression; he implored him to do so in terms that could not fail to flatter a man with half Cicero's allotment of vanity. Nevertheless Cicero hesitated, being, as I supposed, fearful of how Caesar would view his intervention. Caesar, however, remarked: "Why may we not give ourselves a pleasure we have not enjoyed for such a long time: of hearing Cicero plead a cause? Especially since I have already determined what I think of Ligarius, who is clearly a bad man as well as my enemy." When these sentiments were relayed to Cicero, he felt it was safe to accept the brief. He spoke with all his old eloquence. Young men who had not previously had the opportunity to hear him in action were amazed. Some were even moved to tears, such was the pathos he evoked. The charm of his delivery, the fertility of his argument, the copiousness of his illustrative examples, combined to render him irresistible. Men reared in camps, who had spent ten years in grim warfare, felt perhaps for the first time the power of oratory. No doubt in the great days of the Republic, they said, such experiences were common; but they came as a revelation in the new world of the dictatorship.
All eyes turned to Caesar as he sat in judgment. It was seen that he grew pale. He could not sit still. It was evident that his mind was torn with conflicting passions. At last, when Cicero summoned up the terrible memory of the battle at Pharsalus, describing it in terms worthy of Homer, representing Caesar as Achilles and Pompey as Hector (a dangerous comparison, in my opinion, since we Romans are the heirs of Troy) Caesar was seen to tremble — I wondered if he was on the brink of one of those epileptic fits of which he was so ashamed — he let the documents in the case slip to the floor, raised his right hand, and cried:
"Enough. Caesar conquered Pompey, but Cicero has conquered Caesar by his eloquence. I order that the prosecution be abandoned."
Then he signalled to me to help him from the court. His whole frame trembled as he leaned on my arm.
Perhaps it was on account of this triumph that Cicero felt bold enough to publish his Cato. That was itself an extraordinary performance. Of course he had reason to feel gratitude to the dead man, because it was Cato who, many years before, when a tribune, had proposed that Cicero be accorded the honorific title of "Father of his Country". At the same time, while Cicero's respect for Cato's obstinate adherence to the old, unreformed Republic was certainly genuine, he was far too intelligent and civilised to have ta ken any pleasure in Cato's boor ishness, xenophobia, and contempt for intellectuals. The eulogy was therefore an act of will; it was also — it could not fail to be — the most coherent and persuasive criticism of Caesar's dictatorship. The language was of course coded; Cicero was far too cautious and timid to offer overt criticism of Caesar. But he was a master of all the rhetorical skills, and no one could read his Cato without feeling the force of his implicit thesis: that government by a single person was contrary to both the traditions and interests of Rome. The Republic, he insinuated, had served Rome well, and secured our liberties. Republican institutions had been sufficiently flexible to endure for centuries and to enable Rome to withstand a succession and variety of crises. Was it right to cast our inheritance aside either to gratify the ambition of a single person, however noble and virtuous, or to resolve a temporary difficulty?
"The science of constructing a commonwealth," I had heard Cicero declare, "or renovating it, or reforming it, is like any experimental science, not to be taught a priori. Nor is it a short experience — the experience, let us say, of a single generation — that can instruct us in that practical science, because the consequences of moral causes are rarely immediate; and that which now appears desirable, even speciously necessary, may be prejudicial in its remoter operations."
Holding court at his dinner-table, reclining on his couch, with his eagle head quivering, his scraggy neck extended (as if inviting the sword), he spoke with a lucidity inspired by his passionate commitment to what he saw as truth. (That was how it impressed me at the time; in retrospect I wondered if this was not yet another extraordinary piece of advocacy. How do you gauge the sincerity of a master of language?)
"Man's nature is intricate, and the objects of society are of the greatest conceivable complexity. It follows therefore that no simple disposition of power within a State can be suitable either to man's nature or to the quality of his affairs. The government of a single person is simplicity indeed, better suited to barbarian tribes than to Roman citizens. When I hear men like Antony boast of the simplicity of contrivance aimed at, and achieved, in any reformed Constitution, then I stand amazed by such a display of ignorance of the complexities of political science. Simple governments are fundamentally defective. When ancient opinions and rules of life inherited from our illustrious forefathers are taken away, the loss cannot be estimated.
"Men talk," he said, "of the necessity of the moment. That is easy talk, superficially cogent. A man like Antony" — and when he said Antony, did he use the name, I wondered even then, as a code for Caesar? — "men like Antony, incapable of reflection, devoid of the impulse of veneration, an impulse which should defend us against rash speculation, talk of the need for innovation. Well, it is true, I admit, that a state without the means of reform is without the means of its own preservation. But, my friends, but — and it is a great and powerful but — we should remember this: a spirit of innovation is generally the result of a selfish temper and confined views. Men will not look forward intelligently to posterity, who never look backward, with admiration and affection, to their ancestors. I have talked to you before of the dangers of what I term individualism. Why? Because, my friends, I am afraid — we should all be afraid — to put men to live and trade each on his own private stock of reason; for that stock can only be petty and narrow in its foundation. We would do better to avail ourselves of the general bank and capital of wisdom and experience which we have inherited from the generations that made Rome what it is.
"I am told," he continued, "that the times are out of joint. It may be so. Indeed it is only too evident that in certain respects they are so. But seek the reason, my friends. Do not be satisfied with easy answers. Is it not apparent that men like Antony" — and, as his lip curled and his voice trembled, I could have no doubt that, if he had dared, he would have substituted the name of Caesar — "such men have no respect for the wisdom of others, no respect for tradition, no respect for our inheritance? But they pay it off by a very full confidence in their own wisdom. I would be more comfortable if I could find myself in agreement with them; more comfortable and more foolish
…
"So the times are out of joint? Very well. Be it so. Our age is unhappy, riven by civil war, disputes, selfish ambition. But even that is not the sum of our misfortunes. It is the true misfortune of our time, of this decadent age, that everything we have inherited has become the topic of debate, that the Constitution of Rome, constructed with care, intelligence and patriotic fervour across the centuries, has become a subject for altercation rather than enjoyment. If we continue to follow this course, we shall have no fundamental law, no strict convention, no respected custom, to restrain absolute power. Instead of finding ourselves obliged, and comfortably and properly obliged, to conform to a fixed constitution, we shall find ourselves subject to a few men of power — dynasts, to use the Greek term — who will make for themselves a new Constitution that will conform only to their own designs and selfish ambitions."
He dared not speak so openly in his Cato as he did to guests at his dinner-table, but such were the arguments — what the Greeks call "the sub-text" — which underlay the biography. Cato had become less a man than a symbol. Well, that was fair enough. He was a better and more effective symbol than he had been a man, throughout his blundering and stupid life.
Caesar was disturbed by the Cato. I think he was angry also, partly because his admiration of Cicero was genuine (as far as any such emotion in Caesar could be called genuine), partly because he hoped that Cicero would reciprocate the feeling. And of course in a sense Cicero did; he admired Caesar even while he condemned his course. He liked Caesar too. He sometimes suggested that Caesar was the only man with whom he could talk on terms that approached equality.
But Caesar's disturbance went deeper, unsettled him in a way in which he had thought he could no longer be unsettled. Cicero challenged his understanding of himself. For a moment he opened Caesar's mind to the suspicion that his own star-ordained course might be misguided. Naturally he thrust that suspicion behind him.
"The trouble with Cicero," he said, "is that he clings to certainties that the winds of the world have swept away."
I think that, in his own view, he personified these winds.
"This Cato must be answered," he said. "We cannot allow it to be supposed that Cicero has produced an argument that daunts us. Unfortunately, occupied as I am with practical matters, I have no time to do it. Mouse, you write well. I have always found your reports models of lucidity and good sense. Did you know, by the way, that I have had the report you delivered me in Africa on political feeling here in Rome copied and distributed to senior officers as an example of how these things should be done? Moreover, I admire your power of sarcasm, your ability to cut through cant. And Cato, you'll agree, was all cant. Yes, Mouse, you must compose an Anti-Cato for me. You must show him up for the obstinate and malicious fool he was. Twenty thousand words should be enough. I give you a week. You can manage that? Good. It is essential that we undercut Cicero's argument, and the best way of doing so is to demonstrate that his hero was a buffoon who had no understanding of the way the world is going. It will be published under my name. I think that's necessary. It will attract more attention that way. That's settled then."
So that was how I came to compose what, though I say it myself, was the most effective political tract to be published in Rome in my lifetime. I destroyed Cato's inflated reputation. I made it clear that, if Cicero took such a man as his hero and exemplar, his own arguments couldn't be worth a bowl of piss. I enjoyed writing it; it was brutal, sarcastic and witty. Rome laughed over it for weeks. Cicero immediately retired to his villa in Campania, for he couldn't tolerate the mirth which I had aroused at his expense. Men said that his Cato had all the gaiety of an old woman who had eschewed sex, while my response was as delightful as a nubile girl. And of course Cicero dared not make any reply, or criticism of what I had done, because he believed Caesar was the author.
Only two considerations disturbed my pleasure in my achievement. The first was Caesar's response. Naturally, he was lavish in praise, for it was a principle of his always to commend good work done by those whom he considered his subordinates, and in this case he recognised that my squib had achieved exactly the effect which he desired. It had lanced what he feared might prove a festering sore. Besides, he couldn't help but be amused and pleased by Cicero's evident discomfiture…
And yet he broke off his expressions of satisfaction to say:
"It's no criticism of you, Mouse, to say that I wish I had had time to write the thing myself. I'm not questioning what you have done, which is indeed admirable, when I remark that you have not risen to the full measure of the argument. You have a rare talent for sarcasm as I have remarked before, but you lack the fundamental scepticism of true greatness. There is a lack of strength and freedom in your argument. There is a lack, too, of exuberance. But then how could it be otherwise? You are a good chap, and a skilful writer, and I am fond of you and grateful to you. But you are not Caesar. You have not cast yourself free of the chains formed in the prison of conviction."
Considering that the Anti-Cato — of which, I repeat, I am the sole author, for Caesar did not add a line, did not even revise the tract, whatever some people may assert — has a freshness and life that is absolutely missing from his own, frequently turgid account of his Gallic War, I thought this not only poor criticism, but a piece of what, coming from anyone but Caesar, I would have termed "impertinence". Of course I did not say so, but accepted his observations without comment.
But the other consideration was still more disturbing. I could not clear my mind of Cicero's sub-text. I found myself wondering if he might not be right.
F ortunately, I had not long to brood on these matters. Affairs in Spain demanded Caesar's personal attention, and this time, to my great pleasure, he required me by his side.
"It will be the most formidable campaign since Pharsalus," he said, "and I need those generals whom I trust most. There is no immediate work for you in Rome, in any case, Mouse, and you are not yet due to take up the governorship of Cisalpine Gaul. Besides, I propose that young Octavius should also accompany me, and I can think of no officer better fitted to introduce him to the arts of war than you. Except myself, of course, but I shall be too occupied to give the lad as much attention as I could wish. Between us, however, we shall see to his schooling. Besides, I am afraid that if you were not with us, he would fall under the influence of Antony. I say nothing against Antony, of course. I know his loyalty and his capacity. I recognise his charm and attractiveness as I applaud his courage. Nevertheless, I can't pretend that I think he is the best influence on the young, and certainly not for my nephew who is also my heir."
And so it happened that I travelled with Caesar and Octavius. On account of the lateness of the season — it was the second half of November when we were at last able to leave the city — we chose the land route, and journeyed by carriage through Cisalpine Gaul and along the northern coast of the Mediterranean, entering Spain by that narrow pass between the mountains and the sea.
Caesar's conversation on this long journey had all its accustomed charm and interest. He delighted in instructing Octavius in history, politics, and military affairs. He loved to let his talk range wide, especially in the evenings after supper, when he would discourse on philosophy and literature. I confess that I myself have learned more from Caesar than from any other man, and it was clear that Octavius derived much benefit from this extended intercourse with his uncle. Nevertheless, he was too shrewd to accept everything that even Caesar told him, and on more than one occasion irritated the General by the pertinacity of his questioning.
I would have found the journey delightful but for two things. The first was that even before we set out, Octavius made it clear to me that our relationship had changed.
"I shall always be fond of you, Mouse," he said, "and remember our little affair with tender affection. But I am no longer a boy to be stroked and petted. I regard this campaign as the beginning of my career in public life, and I don't choose to expose myself to scandal and contempt by giving any suggestion that I am a pathic. I'm sure you will understand my reasons, and sympathise with my decision. I know you will, because I believe your love for me is based on respect and not merely on lust. Besides, any hint that our relationship remained as it was while my uncle was in Africa would endanger us both. I am fairly certain that Caesar knows about what had been between us, for my friend Maecenas has established that Caesar has set spies on me, no doubt to determine whether I am suited to be his heir. I know you don't like Maecenas, but I assure you that in such matters he is completely reliable."
He was correct. I detested and despised Maecenas, a young nobleman who claimed to be descended from Etruscan kings. He was a dandy, aesthete, and scented epicene, and I was quite sure that he was in love with Octavius himself. I also feared that he would lead him into vicious practices. The only consolation was that Maecenas was not to accompany us, but had left to study rhetoric and philosophy in Greece, where I had no doubt he would find many less respectable diversions.
I did not argue with Octavius, or try to persuade him to change his mind, for, as he supposed, I understood the good sense of his decision. That didn't make it easier to bear; and indeed the last six months had seen him grow more beautiful and desirable than ever. But I have always had a high regard for virtue, and the chief virtue, after courage, is self-respect. Without self-respect, indeed, neither wisdom nor virtue is possible. So I acquiesced.
Nevertheless, the constant presence of Octavius, while he denied himself to me, was bitter-sweet. On the one hand, I could not fail to delight in the charm of his person, his smile (which he still bestowed as freely as ever on me) and his conversation; I was still warmed by the affection he continued to show me and by the evident pleasure he took in my company. On the other hand, I was tormented by desire. I found myself repeating lines which my poor Catullus had addressed to Clodia.
And then Antony made matters worse. He had conceived a strong dislike of Octavius: "the white-headed boy", as he called him. (Actually his hair was pale-gold in colour.) Antony has never been able to guard his tongue, especially in his cups. One night he was angered when, in a discussion at supper, Octavius exposed the inadequacy of his arguments, and Caesar laughed and nodded in appreciation.
"The boy has you there, Antony," he said. "Your shoulders may be broader, but his head is wiser. You would do well not to lock horns with him, for I fear he will outsmart you at every turn."
Antony scowled and turned to the wine-flask. Later that evening, when the others had retired, he dismissed the slaves and broke out into loud complaint.
"I have served the General loyally for almost ten years. I have stood by his side in battle. He has never given me a commission which I have failed to execute. And now, he encourages that brat to make a fool of me. Brat? Did I say, brat? Worse than that."
He pulled himself up from his couch and slumped across the" table.
"We all know the General's morals. The brat's his catamite. Well, let a man fuck where he will. It's no reason to let his infat — infat" — he had some difficulty with the word — "infatation," he tried, "make him disregard his loyal friendsh."
He looked up, his eyes bleary, yet his mind — which, despite its well-known deficiencies, never lacked penetration — still working. "Ah, that cut you to the quick, Moush. You didn't know? You can't deshieve me, I've sheen the way you look at the brat. Now the General'sh shlipped in and cut you out. Well, remember thish: that brat has an eye for the main chansh. He'll never give himshelf to Moush when he can get Sheashar…"
I did not believe him. But from that moment I was disturbed by jealousy. I could not forget the suspicions he had aroused, and I found myself watching the way Octavius flattered Caesar, and found myself remarking the coquette in him. And I could not doubt that Caesar was capable of anything.
To this private turmoil were added doubt and perplexity concerning what we would find in Spain. Word came to us that the whole peninsula was in revolt against Rome, and that the dissident generals, Gnaeus Pompey and Labienus (the traitor, as we then thought of him) were encouraging the native rebels, and even colluding with them. This was a sad measure of the debasement that results from civil war. The same thing had happened in Africa, when the Pompeians had surrendered a Roman province to King Juba. Even so, it was hard to credit that the mind of a man like Labienus could be so distorted by personal resentments and ambition that he could place his own interests so absolutely above the interests of Rome and Empire. I was dismayed and angered when I reflected how many Roman legionaries had perished, how a succession of noble generals had striven, in the great endeavour to bring Spain under the benign and fruitful rule of Rome, and now saw this great enterprise undermined by the selfishness of faction.
Reports brought us terrible news. Troops loyal to Caesar were executed by order of the Pompeys or Labienus; this was all the more bitter to hear in the case of Labienus for he had formerly commanded some of the men whom he so callously committed to the sword. Moreover, Gnaeus Pompey was operating what was no less than a reign of terror against those provincials who, acknowledging the benefits they had obtained from Rome, tried to hold fast to Caesar. The family of the great financier Balbus, Caesar's loyal friend, without whose assistance he could never indeed have maintained his army throughout these terrible wars, had to flee from their mansion in Cadiz disguised as peasants.. The house itself was sacked, and Balbus later showed his generosity (and his wealth) by accepting his losses philosophically and neglecting to seek the recompense from the public Treasury which Caesar would have felt obliged to make.
It was winter, and the landscape of central Spain is terrible in that season. The rivers are foaming torrents through a sea of rock. It is like the desert in its immensity, and yet unlike the desert in its meaning. The desert denies man; Spain breaks him as even the backs of its mountains are broken. I have never been in a country which spoke so clearly of its indifference to man and his meaning. Perhaps it was this indifference which accounted for the atrocity of the Spanish War.
We fought our way to the south, battling against the elements and geography rather than the enemy who fell back before us. So we advanced through the wake of the destruction which they wrought. Food was scarce and supplies difficult to organise. I have often said that the most important officer in the army is the quartermaster; it was never truer than in Spain.
At last we caught up with Labienus and Pompey on the plain of Munda a few miles out of Cordova. They could avoid battle no longer. We knew it was by Labienus' counsel that they had drawn us so far forward, weakening our army. Gnaeus Pompey would have been rash enough to offer battle weeks before. But Labienus said "no". Perhaps he had been hoping that Caesar's well-known impatience would lead him to make a rash move; there was, after all, no officer who knew Caesar's mind better than Labienus, except myself. And indeed Labienus' strategy had almost worked, for Caesar had been tempted by the notion of trying to outflank the enemy, and had been on the point of essaying this audacious enterprise (which would, of course, have exposed his flank to a counterattack while he was still on the march) when I had urged him that, in accepting the apparent invitation offered by the enemy's movements, he would be falling into a trap laid by Labienus. He was displeased at the suggestion, but one aspect of Caesar's genius (which, as you know, Artixes, I have never denied, and which indeed you Gauls have felt so severely) that never deserted him was his ability to let reason in the last resort speak loud. So, although he was piqued by my suggestion that his judgment was in this instance unsound, he yet gave the matter due consideration, and acted as I had advised. And I am bound to say that he showed no resentment of the fact that my judgment had been better than his, though he did not acknowledge it publicly either. Indeed, when Antony urged the outflanking movement, arguing forcefully that it would surprise the enemy and offer us the chance of a quick victory, Caesar employed my arguments against Antony as if they had been his own. But I suppose that is ever the way of genius, which must always be supreme.
Labienus had chosen their position. One could see it was his work at a glance. They were drawn up on the crest of a rise. Behind them the ground rose gently again towards the little town of Munda. It was not a steep hill, but from the plain we would still have to climb perhaps a hundred feet. That may not sound much, but it is a lot to ask of soldiers attacking a well-armed and well-trained enemy, not deficient in number. Labienus and Pompey had, we were assured, some thirteen legions. These were drawn up in the centre. The Moorish and Spanish auxiliaries, half of them cavalry, were on the wings. The ground was steeper there. There was no choice but to make a frontal attack.
The night before the battle was very cold. It was the day after the Ides of March, and a hard frost. Meteors blazed in the sky. The priests reported that the images of war we carried in our baggage had sweated blood. A deserter assured us that the eagles of the Pompeian legions had dropped the golden thunderbolts from their talons, spread their wings and flown to our camp. When none arrived, the man was soundly whipped. I suppose he was either drunk or demented.
The battle began with a brief cavalry skirmish, which was no more conclusive than such things usually are. Then the lines were locked. It was not a day for manoeuvring, and there was indeed no scope for any clever device. This was a battle, I saw at once, that would be gained by whichever side pounded the hardest. In such battles what matters most is morale. As long as men feel they are supported, they will hold their ground. They know besides, if they are experienced troops, that they have only two choices: to break through, or to engage in that most difficult of movements, an orderly retreat. Two fears dominate the mind of the experienced officer to the exclusion of all else. The first is that his own troops will break through on too narrow a front, with the result that they can be cut off and massacred. The second is that panic will set in. The officer's task therefore is to hold the line steady.
I have never known such fighting as at Munda. Our own troops were wonderfully resolute. They had not marched through Spain, enduring terrible hardships, to lose everything now. On the other hand, I was amazed by the enemy's spirit. This was quite different from anything we had previously encountered in the civil wars; it was as if the hatred which Labienus and Pompey's sons felt for Caesar had communicated itself to the whole army. I saw something else in one of those flashes of insight that can come upon one when nerves and body are fully stretched: this resolution was the justification of the policy of atrocities which the enemy commanders had deliberately pursued. In earlier campaigns the enemy's morale had been undermined by Caesar's declared policy of clemency; that, of course, was what he had intended. Now, as a result of their own actions, they knew that they had put themselves beyond his mercy. For them, as for us, it was a matter of conquest or death.
After some two hours of fighting, we had gained little ground. The enemy had yielded perhaps twenty yards, but their position was if anything stronger than before. A ripple of doubt ran along our lines. At that moment Caesar's self-control snapped.
He yelled: "Soldiers, are you going to betray me now to these boys?" and, snatching up a sword and shield from a wounded soldier, dashed against the enemy line. For a moment he disappeared from my view.
"Save the General," I cried. "Will you let him die alone? Will you be thus disgraced?"
I grabbed a centurion by the shoulder and pointed towards the melee around Caesar.
"There is where the battle must be won. Save the General or die disgraced."
Waving my sword high, but quickly couching it in the attack position, I led a charge of some two hundred men towards where the troops around Caesar were struggling. It turned the issue. For a moment the battle stood still. Then, very slowly and still in good order, the enemy left began to withdraw.
Our position was now one of the greatest danger. I could imagine Labienus smile as he watched the battle develop from his vantage point at the gates of Munda. Another fifty yards, he must have thought, and I shall be able to loose my cavalry on the enemy's flank. I shouted orders to halt the attack and re-form our ranks, but in the noise and press no one heard me or had sufficient self-control to obey. I looked across and up the hill. I could see cohorts of Labienus' cavalry and infantry moving from his right and centre. Our position was more dangerous than ever, and all, I cursed, as a result of Caesar's moment of uncharacteristic panic. (It is fair to say that this may have been the result of an epileptic attack he had suffered a few days before.)
But… Caesar always declared that he was a favourite of the gods, and if ever a day proved this to be the case, it was Munda. Labienus' manoeuvre, admirably intelligent though it was, destroyed him. The rapid and unexpected deployment of the troops was remarked and misinterpreted by the men in his front lines. They did not realise that he was about to unleash the blow that would give them victory. Instead, they thought that it was the beginning of a general flight. Panic set in, rapidly as it always does. Except for one legion, which retreated in good order, and died fighting almost to the last man, the army of our enemy disintegrated.
I have never known a battle change so completely in such a short time.
One wing of the enemy army broke, fleeing to the safety of Cordova. The rest were thrown back into the ditch before the walls of Munda. There was no escape. Few prisoners were taken. Our legionaries were determined to make an end of the wars, then and there, that grey afternoon. They could not have been restrained from slaughter, even if that had been Caesar's wish. And it was not. For the first time in the civil wars no quarter was given.
"I have often fought for victory," Caesar said as night fell on the field, whence the groans of the dying and the wounded still prevented the silence of night from descending, "but this is the first time I ever fought for my life."
It was reported that the enemy dead numbered almost thirty thousand. Among them was Labienus himself. I looked on that strong, proud, aggrieved countenance.
"He chose the path he has followed," Caesar said.
That night Octavius came to my tent. He was pale and trembling.
"Well," I said, "that is war, the great destroyer of illusion."
It was not quite the end. The two sons of Pompey had escaped the field. Sextus, it seemed, had found a refuge, none knew where. Gnaeus reached Gibraltar to find that all the ships were in Caesar's hands. He fled back from the coast, into the mountains. There he was discovered by a troop seeking fugitives from the battle. They found him wounded in a cave, deserted by all but a couple of slaves. He demanded clemency. Even in his extremity, I am told, he could not keep a note of arrogance from his voice. He received none. The soldiers made short work of him. As with his father, his head was cut off, and sent to Caesar.
Meanwhile Cordova had been besieged. The walls were stormed. More than twenty thousand soldiers and citizens were put to the sword. Antony was mighty in the slaughter, drunk on wine and blood-lust. The word "clemency" rang in my ears like a mocking bell. We had journeyed far from that dawn on the banks of the Rubicon.