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  Caesar

  ( Imperial - 3 )

  Allan Massie

  Allan Massie

  Caesar

  CHAPTER 1

  The river was no wider than a horse could leap. Beyond, on the farther bank, shepherds, angular figures wearing sheepskin cloaks, were gathering their flocks. Evening mist hid the sheep themselves from view; only the upper parts of the shepherds could be seen as the vapour rose from the marshy ground. It was cold. Rain began to fall. I turned away, and, my right knee throbbing — a legacy of our last campaign — hobbled the mile back to camp.

  Casca was in his tent, drinking wine heated with nutmeg and cinnamon. He had removed his armour and stood by the table, slack-bellied in his tunic.

  "Nothing to see. Nothing to report." "Of course there isn't. Everything is arranged," he said. "I wish I could be as confident. He's made mistakes before now, bad ones. Labienus used to say that 'impetuosity' was the General's greatest defect."

  "Yes, and if he'd not been there to restrain him, we'd have been in the soup. Spare me the tune, old fruit. Well, old Lab isn't here now, and good riddance to him."

  Labienus, the most experienced of the General's lieutenants, his companion since the first days of the Gallic War, disliked Casca, despised him even, deploring his predilection for boys and wine. Fair enough, if your chosen refrain was 'ancient Roman virtue'. But Casca was my cousin and my closest friend. I knew his weaknesses better than Labienus could, his strengths also. For all his self-indulgence and affectations, he had nerve. His soldiers adored him, finding amusement in the constant presence of Diosippus and Nicander, Greek catamites, scented curly headed effeminates, whom Casca professed to adore. This was nonsense. Casca cared for nobody but himself, with the possible exception of his fat old mother. We were friends, but he would have slit my throat if policy or his own interest required him to do so.

  "I left Himself at table. He was pretending to drink deep, and flirting with the child-wife of some Ravenna cit. Rather a juicy piece, certainly a sweeter armful than Calpurnia. But she'll be disappointed, poor slut."

  "Yes," I said, "orders are out. He has also issued a declaration that his intentions are honourable and his cause just."

  "Spare me the Ciceronian balls. When we fight it will be for Caesar's career and Caesar's skin. And our own. If I can kill a few of my creditors, Rome will be a sweeter place. Do you know what my debts come to? Neither do I, I'm happy to say, though my mother wrote to me on the subject only last week. Not that there will be much action tomorrow. Crossing that ditch which for some reason you thought it necessary to inspect will be merely symbolic. He's already sent a detachment of troops to occupy Rimini. And Antony and Curio arrived there yesterday, having fled Rome disguised as slaves. I should have liked to have seen the gorgeous Antony in that part."

  He blew a kiss.

  "I suppose he's been waiting for them," I said. "I suppose that's been the cause of the delay."

  "You suppose wrong as usual, cousin. The reason has been policy in part, to make the opposition commit itself so publicly to his destruction and disgrace that he can argue he has been forced to move in self-defence."

  "And hasn't he?"

  "Hasn't he? Perhaps he has. Who can tell, with Caesar, at what moment the play-actor removes his mask? But he has delayed also because he knows that this is the decisive moment of his career. He is a gambler who has staked all. There's no turning back. It's the first step that counts. Now he's got the dice in the box. 'Let them fly high,' he muttered to me this evening."

  "Are you nervous?" I said. "They tell me Caesar dreamed last night that he lay with his mother." "Caesar the dreamer," Casca said. "Is there news of Pompey?"

  Casca laughed. He thought the great General a great booby, an old woman, and laughed again when I reminded him that some old women like his own mother were very tough. Pompey had boasted that he had only to stamp his foot on the soil of Italy, and legions would spring from the ground. That report, some weeks back, had disturbed Caesar, till Casca said:

  "We must cut the ground from under his feet, so that he stamps only the air."

  "Are the omens favourable?"

  "The omens, my dear, are favourable, as Caesar has commanded."

  I retired to my own tent, and lay on my camp-bed, anxious. I knew myself incapable of my cousin's levity. Casca had played the part of the ruined man so long that he knew no other, was incapable of seriousness. My position was different. I was younger in spirit, had much to lose, was justified in dreading the future. In any case, civil war is terrible. For all I knew Pompey could make his boast good.

  Night crept on. I was reluctant to extinguish the lamp. My grandfather's stories of the great proscriptions in the wars between Marius and Sulla came between me and sleep. What had Caesar's dream portended? The implication was evident, disturbing, inauspicious. If Rome was his mother, to lie with her was incest. I had nursed the broken head of my friend Clodius, murdered by a gang hired by Pompey. Cicero defended the murderer with his usual dishonest rhetoric. I was at one with Casca in my contempt for the great orator, the self-styled saviour of the city from Catiline, my mother's cousin, and perhaps lover.

  I do not think I slept.

  Before dawn, there was more than night movement — the ring of harness, the neighing of horses, the stamp of sentries, the susurration of a thousand legionaries. And then, far away, I heard the music, a thin and dancing pipe. I scrambled to my feet, and into my clothes, buckling on armour and seizing my sword. The mist was dense and clinging-wet, but the music drew me towards the river. Others pushed past me, hurrying towards it, soldiers moving in unaccustomed fashion, without orders or method. But for their eagerness, the sense of anticipation which enveloped us, you might have thought they were running away.

  A splash told me we were approaching the bank. A horseman brushed past, the jolt of his horse causing me to stumble. But a path opened behind him, and then there was light. It came, like the music, from the further bank, a shaft of light, unnatural, unearthly. My chest heaved. I looked along that tunnel of light, and though I was gazing straight at it, was not blinded.

  The piper sat on the far bank of the Rubicon, in Italy.

  The music silenced the soldiers. They held back. A centurion near me shouted an order to advance into the stream. No one obeyed. The music floated towards us, and the mist swirled round the piper. Then a legionary cried: "It's the god Pan," and his shout was taken up, echoing along the wavering line, "Pan, Pan, Pan." The young man who had first cried the name threw himself on the ground. Others imitated his action. I kept my gaze on the piper who, without seeming to move, retired, fading into invisibility even as I tried to hold him in view. The music died away with him. There was a long grey silence. Shamefaced on account of their momentary terror, yet strangely exultant, the men scrambled to their feet, advanced on the stream, and crossed over into Italy.

  "Some trick of the General's. You can count on that," Casca said. But was it? I have never known. When the incident was mentioned to Caesar, he smiled in that evasive, self-deprecating manner he had, that told you nothing, and yet hinted an enormity.

  I remember that dinner in Rimini. Word had come to us that garrisons in the little towns nearby had surrendered, coming over to Caesar with protestations of loyalty. Caesar gathered his staff around him.

  "This is not a time for feasting," he said, "but nevertheless I raise my cup of wine in token of my gratitude for your support, and to bear witness to my determination to succeed. We have taken an irrevocable step. When we crossed that stream this morning, we broke the laws of the Republic. You all know why I have done so. My enemies were determined to destroy me. I have acted in defence of my dignity, dearer to me than life itself. But do not allow yourselves to be deceived into thinking th
at this is a mere personal quarrel. I know indeed that you do not believe that. But I am also aware that in the weeks to come strenuous efforts will be made by friends, relatives and associates to persuade you that it is only that, and therefore unworthy of your support. So let me assert that I stand also in defence of the constitutional rights of the tribunes, and the liberties of the Roman people which my adversaries would subvert. Let me remind you that I offered to lay down my arms if Pompey would do the same. Let me remind you that I offered to surrender all my commands save Cisalpine Gaul and a single legion. Let me remind you that force was used against the tribunes who legitimately cast their veto against the Senate's decree that would have compelled me to disband my army without receiving any assurances of my personal safety. I did not seek this war. It was forced on me by my enemies. They wanted it, not I. I am only glad that it has provided me with the opportunity to number my friends. You here are chief among them, and I thank you with all my heart for your loyalty and courage. Our position is perilous, but we have known danger before. I trust in audacity, and in the justice of my cause."

  Mark Antony led the cheering in which we all joined. There was relief that the period of uncertainty was over, that we had arrived at the moment when all was put to the test.

  I confess that my own cheers were all the louder because of the fear I felt. It will be difficult for future generations to understand the awe which Pompey inspired. But it was natural. He had been the great man in Rome all my life. His achievements in Asia were unprecedented. Even Caesar's conquest of Gaul, in which I had been proud to participate, seemed a small thing in comparison. The Gauls were no better than brave barbarians, ignorant of the art of war. But Pompey had defeated great kingdoms and brought them under the yoke of Rome. Our Empire was his creation, rather than that of any other individual. For years he had overshadowed Caesar. I knew that when they first came together, Caesar was the least of the Triumvirate he formed with Pompey and Marcus Crassus. He lacked the former's reputation and the latter's wealth.

  Our party had nothing to compare with Pompey's renown; it had nothing to compare with the wealth of his supporters. When I looked round that dinner-table, I saw few men whom the world had learned to respect, some — Casca, Antony, chief among them — whom it was accustomed to despise. I knew that many of Caesar's adherents were as insolvent as Casca, desperate to repair their fortunes in the wreck of the State.

  I was not among them; nor was I, like others, an adventurer of no breeding. I came from one of the greatest Patrician families; I could boast a dozen consuls among my ancestors. I was rich. My estates alone could support me in luxury, when I came to inherit them — and my father was old. I had nothing to gain, for I lacked neither wealth, reputation nor standing, and much to lose. Yet I held to Caesar.

  If any ask why, I cannot well answer. When I read historians, I am amazed by the certainty with which they assure us of the motive of actions. It is curious that they know such things, when few could tell us with equal certainty why they fall in love with a woman or a boy. I was attached to Caesar's staff as a young officer in Gaul. It might be natural to suggest that this determined my allegiance. But Labienus, who was much closer to him, deserted his cause, though Caesar had never spoken of Labienus anything but warmly. Some said it was because he came from Picenum, Pompey's stronghold, and so owed a prior allegiance. I do not believe this. Something in Caesar's manner offended him. Was it perhaps the very same thing which held me to the General?

  I perplex myself with these questions, now, when it can scarcely matter, when it may be that nothing matters. I do not believe I have long to live. I am kept here by the Gauls as a pawn, a bargaining-counter. I foresee an ignominious end. This morning I asked the youth who has been assigned to me, and who speaks tolerable Latin, if there was any news. I deduced the worst from his silence. But it may be he is only ignorant. After all, why should he be acquainted with affairs of State?

  Yes, I confess. I am apprehensive. I do not fear death. No Roman nobleman does. I should like only to be certain that I may die in a manner worthy of my ancestors. It is my fear that this will not be permitted me. A knife in the dark is more likely; then my head sent to my enemies as token of a good deed. That was Pompey's fate. Caesar pretended to be disgusted; inwardly he was relieved. He wouldn't have known what to do with Pompey, who had not been a suitable subject for his famous clemency.

  I run ahead of myself, here where I am held still.

  Caesar's charm, Caesar's famous charm. He had a habit of putting his arm round you, and taking the lobe of your ear between his thumb and forefinger, and playing with it while he confided, or seemed to confide, his secrets to you. I wouldn't have tolerated this from any other man. When Caesar held me thus, I felt a thrill of pleasure. Does that admission demean me?

  My perplexity is all the greater, because unlike Antony and Curio, I had no certainty of victory.

  When Caesar retired that night, Antony stretched himself on the couch and called for the slaves to bring another flagon of wine.

  He smiled at me.

  "You'll stay and drink? You'll share this gaudy night, won't you?"

  "The General suggested we should retire early. There's a war to be fought," I said, taking the next couch and reaching for the wine.

  "There will be no fighting, not for a long time," Antony said. "It's a picnic, a holiday excursion." "How can you be so sure?"

  The smile that charmed and seduced men and women, that smile I so envied, spread across his face. There were always moments when Antony seemed like the god Apollo.

  "They'll run like hares," he said. "You forget," he added, "I've just come from Rome. I know the calibre of our enemies. Nothing but wind. You heard I had to disguise myself as a slave? That meant that for a couple of days I congregated with slaves. Slaves talk among themselves in a way their masters never credit. Did you know that?"

  He poured more wine, and waved the slaves who were in attendance away.

  "Do you know what they said? They said that the Optimates — you know that's what Cicero calls the collection of elderly boobies arrayed against us? They said they were shit-scared. I could believe it."

  "Pompey?" I said.

  "Pompey is finished. He may have been a great man once. Now…" he turned his thumb down. "You've been in Gaul. Have you seen Pompey lately?"

  "I was in Rome last winter. I saw him being carried in a litter through the Forum."

  "In a litter… The Great One is now a great lump of lard. He never knew much, except — I grant this — how to draw up an army. But in politics he was always a baby. He's been outmanoeuvred by Caesar's enemies, who were his enemies not so long ago, most of his life in fact. They've imprisoned him, and all he has left is his reputation. Reputation. I don't give a fiddler's fart for reputation. No, dear boy, the campaign before us will be like nothing you have seen in Gaul. They fight there. This time it will be a battle of flowers. And words. You can count on Cicero for words. What do you suppose the women are like in this town?"

  So I accompanied Antony to a brothel, and went drunk and sated to bed as the sun rose. That was how I began the great Italian campaign.

  CHAPTER 2

  It is not my intention to describe our campaign in Italy or the civil war that followed. For one thing, I do not know how much time I shall have to write this memoir; for another, I have too painful memories of the later wars so disastrously completed. Completed, that is, as far as I am concerned.

  Some will see my detention here as justice. Ironic, or poetic, justice perhaps. How do I see it?

  Well, let me say this. Caesar boasted of his clemency. He confined it to Roman citizens. He forgot clemency when it came to foreigners.

  Take the case of the Gallic leader, Vercingetorix, for example. He was chief of the Arverni, a man of great beauty, courage and guile. I took part in that terrible campaign of Alesia. It was my first experience of total war. I rejoined the army while we were laying siege to the Gallic stronghold of Avaricum. It was wi
nter. The snow lay knee-deep on the mountain roads. One of my fingernails fell off on account of the cold. Vercingetorix destroyed granaries and storehouses in an attempt to deny us food. Our legionaries were near despair. Caesar rallied them with insults and affection. We made a direct assault, and took the town. Caesar ordered or permitted — I have never been certain which — a general massacre.

  "Why not?" Casca said. "There is food here for an army, but not for the civilian population." He was commanding a detachment sent to guard the corn-stores to prevent looting. Half the town was ablaze. The confusion was terrible. Women were raped before having their throats cut. Only a fortunate few were able to attach themselves to the army. Caesar g azed on the horror with equanimity. "The men have suffered much to achieve this," he said.

  The Gauls did not despair. Vercingetorix threw himself into his citadel of Alesia. We laid siege to it. Soon we were ourselves besieged. A new Gallic army descended on us, invested our lines which were themselves investing the city. Only a commander of supreme rashness could have found himself in such a trap; only one of rare nerve and audacity could have saved us.

  Caesar remained calm.

  "Caesar is not destined to die in a barbarian land," he said, and touched his forehead.

  One day, to our amazement, we saw the gates of the city open. We stood to arms, expecting an attack. It was not soldiers who began to descend the hill towards us, but a host of old men, women and children.

  "So," Casca said, "supplies are running low there too."

  They extended their hands towards us, pointed to their mouths, and cried out in their strange gibberish for food. Caesar gave orders that none was to be provided; neither should they be admitted to our lines: "Not even pretty girls or boys," he said. "It will do the garrison no harm to see their loved ones starving to death before their eyes."