"That may be so. But I also know that this impulse was ^ — fortified by his own youthful experiences in the days of Sulla's proscriptions. I have often heard him say that history proves that by practising cruelty, you earn nothing but hatred. 'Nobody,' he says, 'ever achieved an enduring victory by such means except Sulla, and Sulla is a man I do not propose to imitate.'"
(If I read this passage to Artixes, he will certainly answer that Caesar practised abominable cruelties in Gaul.)
"All right," Cassius said, "I accept that. But do you know what Cicero is also saying: that it is a disgrace to live under Caesar's rule. He has even been heard to mutter that he wished Caesar would persecute him, so that he might regain his self-respect."
"In my opinion, Cicero would in the last resort abandon his self-respect more readily than his comfort and security."
"You are right there, Decimus. Indeed he has already done so, which accounts for his grumpiness. Well, we shall not settle these matters this afternoon, but remember: I do not think things can continue as they are. I fear we are to be confronted with the choice between tyranny and anarchy, and I do not know which is the more to be feared. I have heard Caesar quote Euripides: 'Is crime consonant with nobility? Then noblest is the crime of tyranny.' It is a temptation which I fear he will find irresistible. And then where shall we be? Meanwhile, let's to supper. I trust my daughter is conducting herself to your satisfaction. She needs a husband's discipline, having been spared a father's on account of my long absences. And, Decimus, keep a tight hold of young Octavius. That friendship you have established may serve us well."
If only he knew, I thought. Perhaps he did, and did not care.
Word came the next month that Caesar had destroyed his enemies in Africa. Even those who were hostile to Caesar rejoiced, since Cato and the other commanders had allied themselves to King Juba of Numidia and even gone so far as to propose to surrender an imperial province to the barbarian King. Cato, either fearing Caesar's vengeance or disdaining the clemency which he would have received as an insult, fell on his sword. I could not regard this as other than a satisfactory conclusion to a foolish life. Ironically, many received it rather as proof of Cato's superior and antique virtue. For my part, I have never admired suicides, though I know this is an unfashionable opinion. It pleased me, however, that Octavius was of my mind.
"I can't see why people praise suicides. It's living that takes courage. Not to give up. I shall never never give up."
I believed him. I still do, now when the temptation of suicide is powerful. So easy, I think, to despise and resist that temptation, to condemn the act, from a position of security and comfort. But now… to choose my own way, rather than to expose myself to the humiliation of whatever death is determined for me? And yet… I see Octavius touch his upper lip with his tongue in that perhaps nervous gesture of his, and hear his cold, clear voice: "… not to give up. I shall never never give up." We discussed it further, I recall. He suggested that it was time we put away what he called "the dramatic affectations of the old Republic. A man is but a man," he said. "He should not see himself as a tragic figure. Keep such gestures for the stage. Life is not a play or drama."
Can he really, so young, pretty and untried, have said all that, brooded on such matters?
Are his words a comfort to me now or a reproach?
CHAPTER 7
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."