by Allan Massie
Rome. Caesar is indifferent to mere words. He suggested to me recently that the name 'Ca esar' might itself come to have a grander sound than the name of 'King'. He may well be right. When I said I saw no alternative to what you, Cassius, did not quite bring yourself to propose this evening, that is because I have already explored the possibility of abdication, that he might follow the example of Sulla, and retire into private life. I did not mention Sulla to him, of course, since we all know that he detests the very name, but even the hint displeased him. He is determined to keep hold of power. He is determined to conquer Parthia."
"He might not return from Parthia," Cato said.
"He might not," Cassius said, "but it is a risk we cannot take, for if he did return, in triumph, then…"
He swept his hand, palm uppermost, before him, then turned his thumb down.
"Rome, all of us, in his grip for ever, liberty dead for ever. Cato, you and I stand in the same relation to Marcus Brutus…" This was true, for as Cato's sister was married to Brutus, so also Cassius himself had taken Brutus' half-sister as his own third wife the previous summer. "If you are committed to the enterprise I have suggested, Cato, I wish you would urge it on Brutus. I shall myself in private conversation. His nature is slow, reluctant, I was not surprised when he left us tonight. But we must have Brutus. Will you speak to him?"
"Certainly. I shall speak to my sister Porcia also. As you know, she was devoted to our father, has indeed made almost a cult of his memory. Consequently she loathes Caesar more than anyone I know. And she has great influence on her husband."
"Excellent," Cassius said. "I would trust few women with our intentions, but I am ready to make an exception of Cato's daughter."
When young Cato had left us, my father-in-law looked on me with something approaching affection.
"You are ready to bear the accusations of treachery that will be levelled at you?"
"Yes," I said.
"I know you don't share my regard for your cousin Marcus, nor the general high opinion in which he is held. I believe you underestimate him. Sometimes indeed I wonder if you are jealous of the golden opinions he wins."
"Jealous of Markie? No. But I question his capacity, and I don't see why you think him so essential."
"You have chosen the right word. I do think him essential. So much so that I believe we have no chance of success if he refuses to join us. Oh, we might succeed in our immediate aim. We don't need him for that. But it is precisely because he is held in such high esteem by the people."
"Oh yes, as the model of 'antique Roman virtue' — Markie. Yes, it baffles me."
"And by the senators… so I truly believe that his adherence is necessary if we are to succeed in what must be our wider aim — the restoration of the Free State. If he joins us, our act will be considered disinterested. If he refuses, our own regard for the Republic will not be credited. So I must ask you to lay aside your prejudice, and woo him also."
"It goes against the grain."
"Nevertheless…"
"And he will blunder, I warn you."
"Nevertheless…"
"Very well, I submit, reluctantly, to your judgment." "Thank you. How is Longina?"
"Blooming, and a joy. Indeed, we are now so happy that I could easily be tempted to subside into contented domesticity."
"No, son-in-law, you are too much the Roman. And it is the noblest and most Roman of enterprises to which we have now committed ourselves."
We both rose. He embraced me, and I departed into the cloudy night.
Chapter 17
Let the dice fly high." Caesar's words came back to me many times in the days that followed. "Let the dice fly high" — no matter how they land. It perplexed me — I had never been a gambler. Mark Antony used to mock me for my reluctance to take chances. I replied that that was all right for a genius like Caesar, but even a genius required sober men like Labienus and myself to keep him straight. "And what about me?" Antony said.
It was a question I could never answer. I never knew Antony's capacity. He fascinated me, I suppose, because he seemed so careless in all he did, careless of everything he did, careless of reputation, careless of consequences. Now I argued with myself, argued with Cassius, whether we should invite Antony to join us. He was consul that year. That was a point in favour, for it would mean that we had the legally constituted authority to back us. On the other hand, I could not be sure of his answer. He was incalculable. Besides there was the danger that he would reveal things in his cups. Cassius made two points: first, that Antony's adherence would repel Markie whose participation he was still eagerly seeking; second, that we would find it easy to approach Antony after the deed.
"He will be alarmed for his own safety. He will have no choice but to assent."
I wished I could be as certain.
Longina kissed me soft on the lips. My fingers danced on her belly, scarcely swollen yet.
"My father…" she said, "… it worries me that you and he.. I don't know how best to put this. My father pretends to detachment. What does his philosophy say? Moderation in all things, isn't that it? He assents to that only in his mind, you know. He's impetuous, impulsive, dangerous. He always finds a respectable reason for anything he wants to do, but the real reason is different. Don't forget I've studied him all my life. I'll tell you something else, something I never… he's always frightened me. It's because he's bitter, disappointed."
"Don't worry," I said, and tried to kiss her fears away.
"It's because I don't want to lose you," she said, "and that's what's dangerous about my father. He costs other people things they prize."
For a little her tenderness unmanned me. Then I thought of the son we would have. I thought of the two avenues before him: the free life of a Roman noble: the subservient existence of a subject.
"Citizens!" Thus had Caesar addressed the mutinous soldiers of the Tenth.
But it was an honourable title too. How long could it survive in Caesar's Rome?
The tramontana continued to blow harsh from the north. Caesar occupied himself with the planning of his campaign. He was as ever meticulous in his arrangements for the legions' supplies — or he saw to it that others were meticulous.
He said to me: "I know you are due to take up the governorship of Cisalpine Gaul, and of course I have marked you down for the consulship in forty-two. But, we may have to find a substitute for you as governor. I think I shall need you in the East. Now that we no longer have Labienus, you are the only General I can trust with an independent operation."
"There's Antony," I said.
"Yes, there's always Antony. But I never know when I can trust Antony and when I can't. I have always been able to trust you, Mouse. That's why I've named you in my will as guardian to my nephew and heir, Octavius."
"There are rumours that you intend to acknowledge the Queen of Egypt's son as your child."
He frowned.
"Silence these rumours, pl ease. They would only upset Cal purnia."
"I have always been able to trust you, Mouse." The words returned to me at night. I stretched my hand out to my sleeping wife, and woke her, to drive the memory away.
Calpurnia still insisted that I find her Bithynian magician.
"I know he's not left the city."
"Perhaps he's in hiding on account of his crimes."
"I don't believe you have really tried to find him. It makes me wonder if you are not on Cleopatra's side."
Her distress had made her scrawnier, more yellow in complexion than ever. I could not pity her, looked on her only with dislike, wondered yet again why Caesar tolerated this unequal marriage. Her nagging caused him irritation. Almost alone in Rome, she would not even pretend to see him as a godlike figure. She insisted on his frailty. Perhaps he kept her by him as a salutary reminder that the image he presented to the public was false. That thought made me pity him. Then it offered itself as a spur. Perhaps Caesar could still be redeemed. If, in his innermost being, he retained such do
ubts, then indeed he might be diverted from the course that promised disaster to him, unimaginable consequences for Rome.
"Caesar," I said, and hesitated, like a fisherman gazing on a turbulent sea, and uncertain whether to launch his boat or stay safe on shore. I swallowed twice and cast myself upon the waves.
"Caesar, I have come to urge you to a course from which I fear you will immediately recoil."
"This is portentous stuff, Mouse."
"I have fought long and hard at your side, upholding your cause. You have been kind enough to praise my efforts. No battle required of me the courage I need now: to tell you what you do not wish to hear."
"I've never doubted your courage. Carry on. They say it's good for all men to hear unwelcome opinions… from time to time. So carry on. How have I offended you, Mouse?"
"You have offended Rome, Caesar."
"Be careful what you say."
"You have offended Rome, Caesar. Every conversation I have, with men of our own rank, yes, and with inferiors also, leads me to that conclusion. Your monopoly of power is increasingly resented. It is resented even by your dearest friends. And that's not all. The other day, I was writing a letter. It doesn't matter to whom. And I found myself writing this sentence: 'It is a rare felicity to be allowed to think what you like and say what you think: how long will this still be permitted us?' I crossed it out, did not despatch the letter. Caesar, I know you as well as any man can claim to know you, and I know that you are not a tyrant. Many men who know you less well than I, think you are. That may not matter, though I cannot be certain, all the less because of your refusal to surround yourself with a personal bodyguard. But you are erecting a system which will breed tyranny. You control the army. You have in effect abolished the elections. All public appointments are in your gift. You will have a successor who will cement your system. He will have successors who will not consider that there could be another way of governing the Republic and the Empire. They will not have your virtues. Liberty will be no more, and we shall no longer enjoy the rare felicity of being permitted to feel as we please, and speak our minds."
I kept my eyes fixed on him as I spoke, watching for the signs of anger I knew so well: a straightening of the upper lip, a harshness in the eye, a red spot on his left cheek and drumming of the fingers of one hand against the back of the other. But I saw none of this. Instead a friendly smile lit up his face.
"And what would you have me do, Mouse?"
"I would have you withdraw, abandon, or at least postpone the Parthian campaign, give our institutions the chance to work freely under your benevolent eye. Caesar, as long as you live, you will surpass all in authority. But there is a distinction to be made between authority and power. You cannot share your authority, for that has been acquired by your deeds and virtue; but you can relinquish power. You have stabilised the State; now you can restore it."
"Well, Mouse, I can see that it took courage to nerve yourself to speak to Caesar in this fashion. But what you recommend is absurd, impractical. I have already explained this to you. The
Republic is moribund. Its institutions are no longer equal to the task of government. If I withdrew, as you advise, the order I have restored would again disintegrate. Rome would once again be a prize to be fought over by warring factions. Liberty is a fine word, but liberty can only be enjoyed when men also enjoy security. That Caesar has provided. There is now in Rome, and throughout the Empire, an ordered liberty. It is all men are fit for. It is only on that basis that the Empire can be governed. Do not suppose that Caesar has not thought long on these matters. They disturb my nights. You offer me a great temptation. Do you suppose I don't have moments when I yearn for the tranquillity of my villa overlooking Lake Albano, when I do not imagine how I might fruitfully employ my last years in the pleasures of literature, philosophy, and country life? We were all educated to revere the memory of Cincinnatus, called from the plough to save Rome, and then, having performed the necessary task, returning home to guide his team of oxen; or of Scipio Africanus, my greatest predecessor in the annals of Roman war, whose exploits were all but equal to Caesar's; who, having conquered Hannibal and Antiochus, retired, disdaining the squabbles and petty jealousies of the Senate, to his country seat at Liternum in Campania. Yes, Scipio's example is a temptation, for his virtue has ensured him enduring fame. But Scipio is also a warning. Like Caesar he was offered the dictatorship for life; unlike Caesar, he declined it. Was Rome better for his act of self-abnegation? Or was it not the case that his disinclination to accept the power he was offered opened the way to a sea of troubles? Caesar will resist temptation. Caesar will do his duty, whatever the dangers — and do not suppose I am unaware of them. I repeat what I have said to you before. You cannot breathe life into a corpse; and the Republic is all but a corpse. No, it is already a corpse. Rome and the Empire require the government of a single person; by which I mean, the concentration of authority and power in a single pre-eminent being. It does not matter what he is called: Dictator, King, Imperator, Caesar, God. Names are devices to satisfy the vulgar. Reality is different. Those who pretend that the Republic can be restored, that Rome can flourish again by means of institutions suitable only for a city-state, delude themselves with charming dreams
…"
He rose, walked behind me, stroked my neck (on which I felt the hairs rise), pinched my ear.
"Reality…" he nipped harder. "Read Thucydides, Mouse, not Plato, history not philosophy. It is courage in the face of reality that distinguishes Thucydides from Plato. The great philosopher is a coward before the harsh imperatives of reality; so he flees into the Ideal, where, by the way, Cicero follows him. But Thucydides confronts the facts, exercises self-control. Therefore he also maintains control of things. So also with Caesar. Idealists are all cowards, for they would have things as they are not. Caesar's goddess is Necessity; who is therefore also Caesar's guide."
I left him in sadness. He was a great man, and I owed him much, but the more stridently he talked of reality, the less his ear seemed to be attuned to any murmurings which might disturb his devoted contemplation of his own glory. What is this world, O soldiers: it is Caesar. What is this waste of sand but Caesar? What is Rome but Caesar? What is Parthia but the means of fulfilling Caesar's Destiny?
"It is a strange thing to remark," Cicero said, "but Caesar has no hinterland."
"What do you mean? I don't follow you." My cousin Marcus Brutus frowned. "No hinterland? I don't understand you." He was like a soldier advancing beyond the frontier, lost as soon as he had left the road with its regular milestones.
I had arranged a small dinner-party. My original intention had been to ask only Markie and his wife Porcia. Then I added Cicero. He would be indiscreet, and therefore stimulating, I thought; besides, with him there, Markie would be less suspicious of my motives. I had also invited Cicero's young wife, to satisfy my own curiosity; but he did not bring her. They had fallen out, decisively perhaps.
"Ah, you are puzzled, Brutus." Cicero was delighted by the admission. "Well, it is natural. Caesar's genius is so dazzling. But of course I have the advantage over you; I knew Caesar well before he was Caesar, with all the connotations that illustrious name now bears. Of course he has always been brilliant; yet his brilliance sheds no light around him. It is, you might say, a concentrated brilliance. And when I say he has no hinterland," he continued, with no pause for breath between sentences, lest someone should interrupt him, "I mean simply this: Caesar has no real sense of the past, no sympathy with the way others may think, no sensitivity to immemorial affections. Perhaps this is one reason for his success: his very limitation. That's an interesting thought, which it might be fruitful to explore. Is it even, one wonders, a criterion for a certain type of worldly success that a man should never pause to consider the other side, the other side of the question, to gaze, if you like, across the valley that divides the present from the past?"
"But I don't understand," Markie said. "Caesar is always talking about his ances
tors."
"Remote ancestors," Cicero said. "So remote as to be unreal. But the tradition of the Republic — ah, that is a reality from which he prefers to avert his eyes."
Longina sighed and caught my eye. I imagined that she was thinking how very much more entertaining Caesar was as a dinner-companion.
Porcia said: "My father always used to say that Caesar was a careerist, nothing else, that he cared for nothing but his own position, and would be absolutely unscrupulous in advancing it."
"But that precisely confirms what I have been telling you," Cicero said. "I would expect, of course, nothing but good sense and accurate observation from Marcus Cato. Caesar is essentially limited. He feels none of the affections which bind men to each other and to their ancestors. I do not think it has ever occurred to Caesar that society is a partnership between the living, the dead and those yet to be born."
"I have heard Caesar deny the very existence of society," I said. "In his opinion, society is an invented concept which enables men to acquit themselves of full responsibility for their actions."
"Precisely," Cicero said again. "I have talked to you, before now, Decimus Brutus, of the threat which I choose to call individualism — which, by the way, is my own poor attempt at providing a Latin equivalent for a Greek philosophical term — the threat which this presents to the community of Rome, and by community I would wish you to understand that I mean all that we have inherited from our ancestors who forged the
Republic and the means of Rome's greatness, and also what we are in duty bound to transmit to our children and grandchildren. I am an old man, near the end of life, near at least the natural term of days, and I see very clearly that, however conscious each of us may be of his own self, and of the demands it makes, the desires it engenders, yet we are all caught in a web of circumstance and connection, which in our case is Rome — its history, its political structure, the duties it imposes. Therefore, in the last resort, I say that whoever injures Rome, injures me, injures my friends, injures all I hold dear and reverent."