Caesar i-3

by Allan Massie

  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 a
s 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 do
minate 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.