by Allan Massie
Cato's assumption of superior virtue infuriated Caesar, all the more because so many people accepted it unquestioningly. He thought him a hypocrite. He also considered that Cato not only failed to understand what Caesar called "the predicament of the Republic", but was an obstacle to others' comprehension.
And then a personal element sharpened the hatred each felt for the other. Cato's half-sister was Servilia, who was, as I've remarked before, in my mother's opinion at least, the only woman Caesar ever really loved. When they were young Servilia is said to have dominated Cato who revered her as the very model of Roman womanhood. And then she submitted to the dissolute Caesar, with his dangerous Popular political attachments, and his connection with Gaius Marius — for an aunt of Caesar's had actually married the old brute. This was too much for Cato; he went about saying that his sister had been bewitched and also that it was a great mistake on the part of Sulla, when dictator, to allow himself to be persuaded to remove Caesar's name from the list of proscribed persons. He liked to quote Sulla's remark as he reluctantly spared Caesar: "In that young man I see many Mariuses."
"Just so," Cato would say, as if this judgment represented the sum of political wisdom. So Cato hated Caesar on account of his debauchment of Servilia.
There's actually rather a good story about this triangular relationship. During the debates in the Senate concerning the conspiracy of Catiline, Caesar and Cato were of course on different sides — indeed, you may remember that Caesar was actually suspected of involvement. Well, a note was passed to Caesar, and Cato leapt up and accused him of receiving messages from the enemies of the State. "I assure you, Conscript Fathers," Caesar said, "this note relates to a purely private matter." "Why should we accept the word of a liar who sympathises with Catiline?" Cato shouted. "I urge that Caesar be commanded to produce the note that we may all see what treasonable business he is engaged in."
"Very well," Caesar said, "if Cato insists I shall let him see the note, but I protest that it should go no further."
"I shall decide that," Cato replied. So Caesar passed him the note, which was a love-letter from Servilia, couched in extremely explicit terms.
I have often heard Caesar tell that story.
Then the matter of Servilia's son, my cousin Marcus Junius Brutus, also came between them. This seems strange when you consider how dull Markie is, but Caesar and Cato competed to exercise influence over him, each affecting to think him the coming great man, a model of virtue. It was absurd; nevertheless that was how they felt. Of course there have always been rumours that Markie was Caesar's son, and I know that sometimes at least Caesar liked to think that this was so. Absolute nonsense, as my mother assured me: Markie was the very image of his extremely dull father. Cato of course was horrified at the suggestion. It seemed to me that he half-believed it, however, and was convinced that if he could attach Markie to himself, this would disprove the story. Be that as it may, it was quite a comedy to see the pair strive for the boring young man's approval and devotion. As for Markie, he took the competition for granted; even as a youth he was so puffed up with conceit that it appeared perfectly natural to him that two of the great men in the State should vie for his confidence and approval. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?
He inclined towards his uncle who appealed to his dull taste and his antiquated notions of Republican virtue. If you ask me, he was always a little afraid of Caesar, partly because his pedestrian intelligence found it difficult to follow the leaps of Caesar's conversation; and he was of course shocked by the audacity of Caesar's speculations. Besides, he was ashamed of his mother's affair with Caesar, and not even Markie could convince himself, despite the rare ability he has always had to believe exactly what he chooses, that they were only good friends. On the other hand, like most people, he couldn't resist Caesar's famous charm, and even Markie couldn't fail to find Caesar a much more agreeable companion than Cato. So he succumbed to Caesar whenever he was present and rebelled against him in his absence.
Cato worked hard to persuade him that Caesar was fundamentally evil, as well as being a danger to the Constitution which they both adored. So at the beginning of the civil war, Markie attached himself to the respectable party and followed Pompey to Greece. No doubt he thought Pompey would win; that, after all, was the received opinion among those who underestimated the magnitude of what Caesar had achieved in Gaul. Markie's decision to join Pompey was clear evidence of Cato's influence, for Servilia detested the Great One, because he had been responsible for the death of her first husband, Markie's father.
He didn't distinguish himself during the campaign which ended at Pharsalus; Markie has no more notion of soldiering than I have of rope-dancing. Indeed, though Pompey had proclaimed himself delighted to receive such a virtuous young man, he had taken care to give him no responsibility. Pompey may have been in decline, but he still knew better than that.
Caesar of course was delighted to make Markie one of the most conspicuous objects of his clemency. He even ordered us to save him by all means, and if he refused to surrender, to let him escape. In fact he was one of the first to run away, and spent a couple of days skulking among the reeds at the edge of a marsh. Then he got to Larissa whence he wrote to Caesar in the most friendly terms. Caesar at once invited him to join us.
I was in Caesar's tent with Casca when he arrived, and we found the whole thing nauseating. First, Caesar dissolved in tears, saying again and again that his one fear during the battle had been that the noble Brutus might be slain.
("Fat chance of that," Casca whispered. "I bet he was safe in the rear." And indeed, I later heard that he had spent the day of the battle writing an essay in his tent, till slaves brought him the news of defeat and he ran away.)
Then Caesar kissed Markie, and wept some more, and Markie wept too, and begged Caesar's pardon, and excused himself by saying that he had been under his uncle's influence. It was a ludicrous scene. I have attended many such, but I can't recall one more absurd.
The upshot of it all was that Caesar soon appointed Markie Governor of Cisalpine Gaul. Casca remarked that while Caesar might be besotted, his judgment hadn't entirely deserted him. Cisalpine Gaul was then one province where we could be sure there would be no fighting. Markie at once set himself to win popularity with the people under his jurisdiction, but he took care to remind them that all their blessings were obtained as a result of the goodness of Caesar.
Caesar was now eager to proceed with the African campaign.
"It gives me a chance to settle Cato's hash for good," he said. "That is essential, for you see, Mouse, as long as he is at liberty, opposition will continue. He is a festering boil, which must be lanced."
I agreed with him entirely.
Despite his desire for speed, certain matters held him in Rome.
The first, and most grievous, was a mutiny by his favourite Tenth Legion, then stationed at Capua. They had grounds for complaint. Their pay was even further in arrears than is usual in armies. Some, whose term of service had expired, had been denied demobilisation. Land promised to veterans had not yet been assigned. So both their present state and their future prospects were unsatisfactory, and now they learned that they would be required to embark for Africa. Agitators, recruited in my opinion by Caesar's enemies in the Senate, infiltrated the camp and found the tinder dry. Accordingly a committee was formed - as committees always are in such circumstances. The officers were arrested and bound in chains, as officers always are unless they have the wit to run away; and the men talked about marching on Rome, determined to lay their grievances before Caesar and demand redress. It was a nasty moment. It was clear to me that if Caesar should fail to suppress this mutiny, everything for which we had worked, fought and suffered would be destroyed. I am told that when the news of the mutiny reached Cato in Africa, he not only ordered that it should be published throughout his camp (in itself an act of extraordinary folly, since mutiny is as contagious as an outbreak of rioting in a city), but went happily drunk to be
d, and stayed drunk for two days. He deserved to have his throat cut for being such a blockhead. However, he got away with it for the time being.
Caesar, as I have said, was at his best and most masterful in the hour of crisis. Calm weather did not suit him; storms aroused and stimulated his genius. He tried to temporise with the mutineers, sending young Sallust, an officer whom he held in more respect than I did, to the camp near Capua, with authority to promise substantial sums of extra pay. Sallust wasn't even accorded a hearing, being met with a volley of stones and insults, which persuaded him that his life was in danger. He therefore fled back to Rome.
It was soon after this that the legionaries themselves moved north. Other troops had been attached to their unworthy cause, and the danger was indeed very great. The excitement in Rome was immense, especially among our enemies who went about promising each other that Pompey was going to be avenged, and that it would soon be possible to restore what they described as "Republican normalcy". Their excitement wasn't even allayed by the news that the mutineers had sacked properties on their march and murdered two men of praetorian rank. The ordinary citizens took a different view, and a more sensible one. They were frankly terrified and looked to Caesar to protect them.
Caesar called his chief lieutenants together to consider how the matter should be handled. Incidentally, since I have often heard people who knew nothing of his working methods declare that he acted always on his own judgment, paying no heed to the opinions of those around him, I must point out that this wasn't the case. Quite the contrary indeed; he invariably paid close attention to what others thought, even if he also liked to make it seem that the eventual decision was entirely his. That was his nature, and that was how he liked to work.
On this occasion Antony's advice was clear. (I don't know why I say "on this occasion", since Antony never lacked confidence in his own opinion - at least till Caesar challenged it, when he would backtrack with the speed of cavalry in flight.)
"Caesar," he said, "we have no shortage of loyal troops still under discipline. We should march out of Rome and confront the buggers. Make it clear you won't stand for any nonsense, but are ready to fight them if need be. That will sort them out. We can all be certain that they won't engage in battle against you yourself."
That advice was typical of Antony: vigorous, flattering to Caesar, and thoughtless. I looked round the table and noticed several heads nod in agreement. They weren't heads I would have trusted to plan an excursion to the country.
Caesar gave no sign whether he approved this plan or not.
Caius Cassius, a recent adherent to our party (he had fought in the Pompeian army at Pharsalus) looked grave. Some may have been surprised that he had been invited to attend this council, but it was Caesar's policy to bind reconciled enemies as tightly as possible to his cause and person. Now Cassius spoke, anxious, as was natural enough, to make an impression.
"I have no doubt that my friend Antony has considered the matter carefully," he said. "He knows these legions, and may have judged wisely. Yet it occurs to me that he may have overlooked what I would call the political aspect. There is reason to believe, is there not, that this mutiny has been fomented by agitators?"
"For myself, I detect the hand of Labienus," Caesar said.
"Thank you, Caesar. I am grateful to have my suspicions confirmed. Now what do I mean by the political aspect? Simply this: if we march out against them, Caesar's enemies will take heart. They will say that his legions are divided against each other. They will say his party is split. They will therefore attract new adherents."
"Bugger new adherents," Casca said. "I'll tell you something more dangerous still. If we march against them, they won't stand their ground, but they won't surrender either. Antony is right in saying they won't dare to face you in person, Caesar. But they will withdraw in good order, they're soldiers dammit, whom we have trained. We know what manner of men they are. We know their pride. And what then? They will believe that their cause can only be saved - their lives even — if they retire and ally themselves to our enemies. It's too great a risk, Caesar."
"So what should we do, Casca, if you reject our dear Antony's proposal?"
"Buggered if I know," Casca said.
"Well, Mouse?" Caesar turned to me. "Have you words of wisdom to offer?"
"I should hesitate to call my opinion wisdom, but it seems to me that you should do nothing which might suggest to them that you recognise that they are not under your orders."
"By Hercules," Antony shouted, "what sort of nonsense is this? They've mutinied, Mouse, in case you haven't noticed. That means that they have defied orders, rejected orders. Or don't you know what the word 'mutiny' means?"
"Oh yes," I said, "I think I do. And if you will allow me to repeat what I said, and this time listen carefully, Antony, I suggested that Caesar should not act in such a manner as to let the mutineers believe that he recognises that they are not under his orders. I mean by that, Caesar, that you take the initiative, not by confronting them, but by issuing the sort of order which they will find quite easy to obey . . ."
"I'm still lost," Antony said.
"Never mind, dear," Casca said. "Mouse is right, Caesar."
I have recounted this conversation in some detail because in the subsequent report which Caesar gave to the Senate, he allowed it to be understood that the plan by which the mutiny was quelled originated with him. I owe it to my dignity to draw the attention of posterity to my part in its defeat. Indeed, though I don't deny that Caesar delivered the final masterstroke, everyone who attended that council knows very well that the grand design was my work.
So word was sent to the mutineers that they could enter the city, and camp in the Field of Mars, so long as they first laid down their arms. (The gates of the city were of course well-guarded by loyal troops.) They obeyed this instruction to the extent that I had thought probable; that is to say, they carried only their swords with them. That terrified the citizens — no bad thing in itself, I thought.
Caesar was angry when I collected him from his house. Fortunately, his anger was controlled. He explained to me that he was revolted by the disloyalty, self-will and stupidity of the men.
"We have been through so much together," he said. "We are part of the same body. Don't they understand that, if they are to command and I am to fall in with their wishes, the whole nature of the bond between us will be tarnished, even destroyed? I have no patience with their greed and insolence."
"Very well, Caesar," I said, "but when you address them, be cold, not warm."
"I shall be cold as a night in the mountains of Helvetia," he replied.
We arrived in the Field of Mars and made our way to the dais which had been erected. Caesar took his seat. For a few minutes he paid no attention to the men swarming beneath us, but spoke only to me and a few others around him. I took stock of the situation. Now that my plan was approaching fruition, I felt nervous for the first time. It was after all possible that it would not work, and in that case things could turn very nasty indeed. There might even be a general massacre.
When Caesar at last lifted his head, looked at the troops and spoke, his voice was bored. He asked to hear their complaints. He spoke as if he had never previously seen these men with whom he had fought throughout Gaul and at Pharsalus. It was,
I must confess, a marvellous piece of theatre: and it disconcerted them.
Nevertheless, after a pause, while they waited to see who would have the courage to speak first, the complaints came fast and thick. Speech tumbled over speech as they told of their wounds, their hardships, what they had suffered in his cause, the great deeds they had accomplished, the friends they had lost, the rewards they had expected and been denied, their desire to be demobilised.
The speeches went on too long. The mood was growing more restive. Still Caesar gave no sign that he had heard.
Someone shouted: "We've torn our guts out for you, Caesar."
One legionary pushed forward, clambered hal
fway up the platform before he was stopped. He tore a patch off his left eye, revealing a horrid vacancy.
"I lost this at Alesia, and still they wouldn't give me my discharge. What do you say to that, Caesar?"
Caesar looked up. He raised a hand. There was silence.
"Very well," his voice seemed unconcerned, an actor's voice. "I have understood what you want. You can all be demobilised immediately. Leave your swords with the guards as you disperse. As for money, you all know Caesar. You can rely on me for every penny you are due and every penny you have been promised. Give your names and the amount you claim to the quartermaster. You'll have to wait, though, till I return from Africa to get settlement in full. I'd counted on you for that campaign. Now it'll have to be fought with other legions. They'll be the ones which will take part in my Triumph when I return. I think that's everything."
Nobody broke the silence. They were utterly taken aback. Either they hadn't expected this easy agreement, or they were disappointed by it. The ringleaders of course had been cheated of the fight they had been paid to foment, but that wasn't the main cause of the strange change of mood. No, it was, first, that reminder of the Triumph he was due, and the realisation that they would have no share in it, even though so many of them were veterans of the battles which had secured the honour for their General. And yet there was, I realised, a still more bitter thought: their discovery that Caesar believed he could do perfectly well without them.
So nobody moved or uttered a word. It was like a funeral before the lamentation begins.
"Citizens," Caesar said, and was rewarded by a howl of pain and grief. He had never addressed them as anything but "soldiers" or "comrades", and now he was calling them "citizens" as if they were no more important than voters whose support he might be trying to elicit.