JOINT RULE OF POMPEY AND CAESAR
Among the democratic chiefs who from the time of Caesar’s consulship were recognized almost officially as the joint rulers of the commonwealth, in the public view Pompey clearly occupied the first place. It was before him, whom the Optimates called “the private dictator,” that Cicero prostrated himself in vain. Against him were directed the sharpest sarcasms of Bibulus, and the most envenomed conversational arrows in the private chambers of the opposition.
This was only to be expected. According to the facts before the public, Pompey was indisputably the first general of his time, while Caesar was a dexterous political leader and orator of undeniable talents, but notoriously unwar-like and indeed of effeminate temperament. Such opinions had long been current, and it could not be expected that the highborn rabble would trouble itself to discover the real state of affairs and abandon established platitudes because of obscure feats of heroism on the Tagus. Caesar obviously played the part of a mere adjutant who executed for his chief the work which Flavius, Afranius, and other less capable instruments had attempted unsuccessfully.
Even his governorship did not seem to change this situation. Afranius had but recently occupied a quite similar position without thereby acquiring any special importance. In previous years several provinces at once had repeatedly been placed under one governor, and often far more than four legions had been united in one hand. As matters were again quiet beyond the Alps and the German prince Ariovistus was recognized by the Romans as a friend and neighbor, there was no prospect of conducting a war of any moment there. It was natural to compare Pompey’s position under the Gabinio-Manilian laws with that which Caesar had obtained by the Vatinian, and the comparison was all to Caesar’s disadvantage. Pompey ruled over nearly the whole Roman empire, Caesar over two provinces. Pompey had the soldiers and the treasures of the state almost absolutely at his disposal, while Caesar had only the sums assigned to him and an army of 24,000 men. Pompey himself could choose the time of his retirement, while Caesar’s command was given to him for a limited though long period. Pompey, in short, had been entrusted with the most important undertakings by sea and land; Caesar was sent north to watch over the capital from upper Italy and insure that Pompey might rule it undisturbed.
But when Pompey was appointed by the coalition to be ruler of the capital, he undertook a task far exceeding his powers. Pompey understood nothing about ruling except how to command. The waves of agitation in the capital were simultaneously swelled by past and future revolutions. The problem of ruling such a city—quite comparable to the Paris of the nineteenth century—without an armed force was infinitely difficult, and for that stiff and stately soldier altogether insoluble. As a result, matters soon reached such a pitch that friends and foes, both equally inconvenient to him, could do as they pleased so far as he was concerned. After Caesar’s departure the coalition still ruled the destinies of the world, but not the streets of the capital.
The Senate, too, which still carried on a sort of nominal government, allowed matters to take their natural course, partly because the coalition’s sympathizers in that body lacked instructions from the regents, partly because the angry opposition kept aloof out of indifference or pessimism, but chiefly because the whole aristocratic class began to feel, if not to understand, its utter impotence. For the moment there was nowhere in Rome any determined government, any real authority. Men were living in an interregnum between the ruin of the aristocratic and the rise of the military rule. As the Roman commonwealth has illustrated the different political principles more purely than any other state in ancient or modern times, so it exhibited political anarchy with unenviable clarity.
It is a strange coincidence that in the same years when Caesar was creating beyond the Alps a work for the ages, there was enacted in Rome one of history’s most extravagant political farces. The new regent of the commonwealth did not rule, but shut himself up in his house and sulked in silence. The former half-deposed government likewise did not rule but sighed, sometimes privately amid the confidential circles of the villas, sometimes in chorus in the senate house. That section of the citizens who still yearned for freedom and order was disgusted with the reign of confusion, but utterly lacking leaders or counsel it maintained a passive attitude, not only avoiding political activity, but keeping as far aloof as possible from the political Sodom.
On the other hand the rabble never had a merrier arena. The number of little great men was legion. Demagoguery became quite a trade, with its professional insignia—the threadbare mantle, the shaggy beard, the long streaming hair, the deep bass voice—and not infrequently its rich rewards. For declamations the tried tricks of the theater were much in demand. Greeks and Jews, freedmen and slaves, were the most regular attenders and the loudest shouters in the public assemblies, where frequently only a minority of those voting consisted of citizens constitutionally entitled to do so.
The real power lay with the armed bands, the battalions of anarchy recruited by adventurers of rank from gladiatorial slaves and blackguards. Their possessors had from the outset been numbered mostly among the popular party; but since the departure of Caesar, who alone understood how to lead and control the democrats, all discipline had crumbled and every partisan practiced politics on his own. Even now these men fought with most pleasure under the banner of freedom; but strictly speaking, they were neither of democratic nor of antidemocratic views. They inscribed on the indispensable banner first the name of the people, then that of the Senate or of a party chief. Clodius, for instance, fought or professed to fight in turn for the ruling party, for the Senate, and for Crassus. The leaders of these bands kept to their colors only in the persecution of their personal enemies—as in the case of Clodius against Cicero and Milo against Clodius—where their partisan position served merely as an instrument in private feuds. We might as well seek to set a charivari to music as to write the history of this political witches’ revel; nor is it of any moment to enumerate all the murders, besiegings of houses, acts of incendiarism and other scenes of violence within the capital, or to reckon up how often the gamut was traversed from hissing and shouting to spitting and trampling and thence to throwing stones and drawing swords.
The principal performer in this rascally theater was Publius Clodius, whose services the regents had already used against Cato and Cicero. Left to himself, this influential, talented, energetic, and truly noteworthy partisan pursued during his tribunate an ultrademocratic policy. He gave the citizens free grain, restricted the right of the censors to stigmatize immorality, and prohibited the magistrates from obstructing the comitial machinery by religious formalities. He set aside the limits which shortly before had been imposed on the right of association for the purpose of checking the political gangs, and he re-established the “street-clubs,” which with their almost military street-by-street setup were nothing else than a formal organization of the whole free and slave proletariat of the capital.1 Of course these exertions in behalf of freedom did not exclude a traffic in decrees of the citizenry. Like Caesar himself, Caesar’s ape did a thriving business in governorships and other posts great and small, and sold the sovereign rights of the state to subject kings and cities.
Pompey looked on all these things unmoved, but if he did not perceive how seriously he thus compromised himself, his opponent did. Clodius had the cheek to dispute with the regent of Rome on a trifling question of sending back a captive Armenian prince, and the dispute soon became a formal feud which revealed Pompey’s utter helplessness. The head of the state sought to meet the partisan with his own weapons, only wielded with far less dexterity. Having been tricked by Clodius regarding the Armenian prince, he offended him in turn by releasing Clodius’ enemy Cicero from exile, and thus converted his opponent into an implacable foe. If the gangs of Clodius made the streets unsafe, the victorious general likewise set slaves and pugilists to work. In the street battles which ensued the general naturally was worsted by the demagogue, and Cato was kept almost constantly under siege in his garden by Clodius and his comrades. Not the least remarkable feature of this strange spectacle was that the regent and the rogue vied in courting the favor of the fallen government. Pompey, partly to please the Senate, permitted Cicero’s recall, while Clodius on the other hand declared the Julian laws null and void, and called on Marcus Bibulus publicly to testify to their having been unconstitutionally passed.
Naturally no positive result could come from this dark imbroglio, for its most distinctive character was its utter pointlessness. Even a man of Caesar’s genius had to learn by experience that agitation was completely worn out, and that the way to the throne no longer lay through demagoguery. It was nothing more than a historical makeshift if now, in the interregnum between republic and monarchy, some whimsical fellow dressed himself in the prophet’s mantle and staff which Caesar had laid aside, and parodied the great ideals of Gaius Gracchus. The so-called party from which this democratic agitation proceeded had so little substance that afterwards it did not even play a part in the decisive struggle.
It cannot even be said that this anarchy kindled among neutral citizens a desire for a strong government based on military power. Quite apart from the fact that such neutral citizens were chiefly to be found outside Rome, and thus were not directly affected by the rioting in the capital, everyone who could be so influenced had already been thoroughly converted to the principle of authority by former experiences, especially the Catilinarian conspiracy. Those who were really alarmed were far more apprehensive of the gigantic crisis accompanying the overthrow of the constitution, than of the mere continuance of superficial anarchy in the capital. Its only noteworthy result was the painful position of Pompey due to the attacks of the Clodians, which had a material share in determining his further steps.
Much as Pompey hated taking the initiative, on this occasion he was compelled by the change of his position towards both Clodius and Caesar to depart from his previous inaction. The disgraceful situation to which Clodius had reduced him at length must arouse even his sluggish nature to hatred and anger. But far more important was the change which took place in his relations with Caesar. Of the two regents, Pompey had utterly failed in the functions which he had undertaken, while Caesar had the skill to turn his official position to an account which left all calculations and all fears far behind. Without troubling much about permission, Caesar had doubled his army by levies in his southern province inhabited mainly by Roman citizens. Instead of keeping watch over Rome from Northern Italy, he had crossed the Alps with this army, crushed in the bud a new Cimbrian invasion, and within two years (58-57 B.C.) had carried the Roman arms to the Rhine and the Channel.
In the face of such facts the aristocratic tactics of ignoring and disparaging him were scarcely suitable. He who had often been scoffed at as effeminate was now the idol of the army, the celebrated victory-crowned hero, whose fresh triumphs outshone the faded laurels of Pompey, and to whom even the Senate as early as 57 B.C. accorded far greater honors than had ever fallen to Pompey. Pompey’s relation to his former adjutant was precisely that of the latter towards him after the Gabinio-Manilian laws. Caesar was now the hero of the day and the master of the most powerful Roman army; Pompey was an ex-general who had once been famous.
It is true that no open collision had yet occurred between father-in-law and son-in-law, but every political alliance is inwardly broken when the relative power proportions of the parties are materially altered. While the quarrel with Clodius was merely annoying, the change in the position of Caesar involved a very serious danger for Pompey. Just as Caesar and his confederates had formerly sought a military support against him, he now found himself compelled to seek a military support against Caesar. This required laying aside his haughty privacy and coming forward as a candidate for some extraordinary magistracy, which would enable him to match or exceed the power of the governor of the two Gauls.
His tactics, like his position, were exactly those of Caesar during the Mithradatic war. To balance the military power of a superior but still remote adversary by obtaining a similar command, Pompey required in the first instance the official machinery of government. A year and a half ago this had been absolutely at his disposal. The regents then ruled the state both through the comitia, which absolutely obeyed them as the masters of the street, and through the Senate, which was energetically overawed by Caesar. As representative of the coalition in Rome and as its acknowledged head, Pompey could doubtless have obtained from the Senate and from the citizens any decree he wished, even if it were against Caesar’s interest. But the awkward quarrel with Clodius had cost Pompey the command of the streets, and he could not expect to carry a proposal in his favor in the popular assembly. Things were not quite so unfavorable for him in the Senate; but even there it was doubtful whether after such long and fatal inaction he still held the majority firmly enough in hand to procure the decree he needed.
The position of the Senate also, or rather of the nobility generally, had meanwhile undergone a change. From the very fact of its complete abasement it drew fresh energy. In the coalition of 60 B.C. various things had come to light for which the times were by no means yet ripe. The exit of Cato and Cicero (which public opinion unerringly referred to the regents, however much they kept in the background and even professed to lament it) and the marriage relationship between Caesar and Pompey suggested, with disagreeable clarity, monarchical banishments and family alliances. The larger public too, which stood more aloof from political events, observed the foundations of the future monarchy coming more and more distinctly into view.
From the moment it became clear that Caesar’s object was not a modification of the republican constitution, but that the question was the life or death of the republic, many of the best men who had hitherto supported the popular party and honored Caesar as its head must inevitably have passed over to the opposite side. It was no longer only in salons and country houses that men talked of the “three dynasts” and the “three-headed monster.” The dense crowds of people listened to Caesar’s consular orations without a sound, and not a hand stirred to applaud when the democratic consul entered the theater. But they hissed when one of the tools of the regents showed himself in public, and even staid men applauded when an actor uttered an antimonarchic sentence or an allusion against Pompey. When Cicero was banished, it is said that twenty thousand citizens, mostly of the middle classes, put on mourning after the Senate’s example. “Nothing is now more popular,” remarks a letter of this period, “than hatred of the popular party.”
The regents dropped hints that through such opposition the equites might easily lose their new special places in the theater, and the populace its free grain. People therefore became somewhat more guarded in expressing their displeasure, but the feeling remained the same. The lever of money was applied with better success. Caesar’s gold flowed in streams. Apparently rich men whose affairs were in disorder, influential ladies who were financially embarrassed, insolvent young nobles, merchants and bankers in difficulties, all either went in person to Gaul with the view of drawing from the fountainhead, or applied to Caesar’s agents in the capital; and Caesar rarely rejected any outwardly respectable man, though he avoided dealing with vagabonds who were utterly lost. In addition Caesar undertook considerable building in the capital, by which men of all ranks from consular down to common porter were able to profit, and also expended immense sums for public amusements. Pompey did the same on a more limited scale, building the capital’s first theater of stone, and celebrating its dedication with a magnificence never before seen.
Such measures naturally influenced a number of men who were inclined towards opposition, especially in the capital, and reconciled them somewhat to the new order of things. But the core of the opposition was not to be reached by this system of corruption. Every day showed more and more clearly how deep the existing constitution was rooted in the people, and how little the politically neutral groups, especially in country towns, were inclined to favor monarchy or even simply to suffer its coming.
If Rome had had a representative constitution, the discontent of the citizens would have found its natural expression in the elections, and would have grown in force by such expression. Under existing circumstances nothing was left for the constitutionalists but to place themselves under the Senate, which, degraded though it might be, was still the representative and champion of the legitimate republic. Thus it transpired that the Senate, now that it had been overthrown, suddenly found at its disposal an army far larger and more faithful than when in its power and splendor it overthrew the Gracchi and under the protection of Sulla’s sword restored the state.
The aristocracy felt this, and began to bestir itself afresh. Just then Marcus Cicero, after having bound himself not only to join the do-nothing faction in the Senate but also to work with all his might for the regents, had secured their permission to return. Although Pompey in this matter only made an incidental concession to the oligarchy, intending first to play a trick on Clodius, and second to acquire in the fluent consular a tool rendered pliant by sufficient blows, Cicero’s return was seized as an opportunity for republican demonstrations just as his banishment had been a demonstration against the Senate. With all possible solemnity, and protected against the Clodians by the band of Titus Annius Milo, the two consuls at the Senate’s behest submitted a proposal to the citizens to permit Cicero’s return, and the Senate urged all supporters of the constitution to be present for the vote. An unusual number of worthy men, especially from the country towns, gathered in Rome on the day of the voting (August 4, 57 B.C.). Cicero’s journey from Brundisium to the capital gave occasion for a series of similar manifestations of public feeling. The new alliance between the Senate and the constitutionally minded citizens was thus publicly proclaimed, and helped not a little to revive the shaken courage of the aristocracy.
Pompey’s helplessness in the presence of these daring demonstrations, as well as the undignified and almost ridiculous position which he had assumed in his fight with Clodius, discredited both him and the coalition. Thus the section of the Senate which adhered to the regents was left demoralized and helpless by his singular ineptitude, and could not prevent the republican-aristocratic party from regaining complete ascendency in the Senate. This party’s game was still by no means hopeless for a courageous and dexterous player. It now had what it had not possessed for a century—firm popular support. If it trusted the people and itself, it might attain its objective in the shortest and most honorable way. Why not attack the regents openly and avowedly? Why should not an eminent and resolute man at the head of the Senate cancel the extraordinary powers as unconstitutional and summon the republicans of Italy to arms against the tyrants? It was possible perhaps in this way once more to restore the rule of the Senate. The republicans would thus be playing a bold game, but perhaps in this case (as often) the most courageous resolution might have been at the same time the most prudent.
Since the indolent aristocracy of this period was scarcely capable of so simple and bold a resolution, there was another and perhaps surer way, or at any rate one better adapted to the character and nature of these constitutionalists: they might work to set the two regents at odds, and thereby ultimately attain to the helm themselves. The relations between the two rulers had become altered and relaxed, now that Caesar’s preponderant power had compelled Pompey to seek a new position of command. It was probable that if he obtained it, a rupture would occur in one way or another and give rise to a struggle between them. If Pompey was unsupported his defeat was scarcely doubtful, and the constitutional party would then find itself ruled by one master instead of two. But if the nobility employed against Caesar the same means by which he had won his previous victories, and made an alliance with the weaker competitor, then the victory—given a general like Pompey, and an army such as that of the constitutionalists—would probably fall to the coalition. To settle matters with Pompey after the victory, judging from his proven political incapacity, could not be an especially difficult task.
The course of events thus naturally suggested an understanding between Pompey and the republican party. Whether such an understanding could be reached, and what shape the confused relations of the two regents and the aristocracy were to assume, came up for discussion in the autumn of 57 B.C., when Pompey proposed that the Senate entrust him with extraordinary official power. He once more based his proposal, as eleven years earlier, on the price of bread in the capital, which had again (as just before the Gabinian law) reached an oppressive height. Whether it had been forced up by manipulation, as Clodius sometimes charged to Pompey and sometimes to Cicero, and these in turn charged to Clodius, cannot be determined. The continuance of piracy, the emptiness of the public chest, and the negligent and disorderly supervision of the grain distribution were already quite sufficient by themselves to produce scarcities of bread in a great city dependent almost solely on overseas supplies. Pompey’s plan was to get the superintendence of all matters relating to grain throughout the empire, and, to this end, to secure on the one hand the unlimited disposal of the Roman state-treasure, and on the other hand an army and fleet, as well as a command which was superior in each Roman province to that of the governor. In short, he sought an improved edition of the Gabinian law, to which the conduct of the pending Egyptian war would naturally have been added as the conduct of the Mithradatic war was added to the pirate roundup.
However much the opposition to the new dynasts had gained ground, when the proposal was discussed in 57 B.C. the majority of the Senate was still under the constraint of the terror excited by Caesar. It obsequiously accepted the project in principle on the motion of Marcus Cicero, who was expected to give (and gave) this first proof of the pliancy which exile had taught him. But in settling the details very material changes were made in the original plan, which the tribune Gaius Messius had submitted. Pompey obtained neither a free hand with the treasury, nor legions and ships of his own, nor even an authority superior to that of the governors. The senators contented themselves with granting him considerable sums, fifteen adjutants, and full proconsular power in all affairs relating to grain supply throughout the Roman dominions for the next five years. This decree, moreover, would have to be confirmed by the citizenry.
There were many reasons which led to this alteration, almost equivalent to a rejection, of the original plan. Even the most timid must surely hesitate to invest Caesar’s colleague not merely with equal but with superior authority in Gaul itself. There was the concealed opposition of Pompey’s hereditary enemy and reluctant ally Crassus, to whom Pompey himself largely attributed the failure of his plan. The republican opposition in the Senate was hostile to any decree which even nominally enlarged the authority of the regents. Finally, and most important, there was the incompetence of Pompey himself, who even when compelled to act could not make himself acknowledge his own actions, but chose always to bring forward his design incognito by means of friends, while he himself in his well-known modesty declared his willingness to be content with even less. No wonder that they took him at his word, and gave him less.
Pompey was nevertheless glad to have found at least a serious employment, and above all a fitting pretext for leaving the capital. He succeeded, moreover, in providing it with ampler and cheaper grain supplies, although not without the provinces severely feeling the reflex effect. But he had missed his real object. The proconsular title, which he had a right to bear in all the provinces, remained an empty name so long as he had no troops of his own. Accordingly he soon afterwards had a second proposition made to the Senate, that it should charge him with restoring the expelled king of Egypt, if necessary by force of arms. But the more evident became his urgent need of the Senate, the less respectfully were his wishes received. It was immediately discovered in the Sibylline oracles that it was impious to send a Roman army to Egypt, where-upon the pious Senate almost unanimously resolved to avoid armed intervention. Pompey was already so humbled that he would have accepted the mission even without an army. But in his incorrigible dissimulation he left this also to be requested only by his friends, and he spoke and voted for sending another senator. Of course the Senate rejected a proposal which wantonly risked a life so precious to his country; and the ultimate issue of the endless discussions was the resolution not to interfere in Egypt at all.
These repeated repulses which Pompey met in the Senate (and still worse, had to accept without retaliation) were naturally regarded by the public as so many victories for the republicans and defeats for the regents. Accordingly, the tide of republican opposition was always on the increase. Already the elections for 56 B.C. had gone but partly for the dynasts. Caesar’s candidates for the praetorship, Publius Vatinius and Gaius Alfius, had failed, while two decided adherents of the fallen government, Gnaeus Lentulus Marcellinus and Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus, had been elected, the former as consul and the latter as praetor. For 55 B.C. the consulship was sought by Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, whose election it was difficult to prevent owing to his influence in the capital and his colossal wealth, and who clearly would not be content with a concealed opposition.
The comitia thus rebelled, and the Senate chimed in. The latter solemnly deliberated over an opinion which Etruscan soothsayers of acknowledged wisdom had furnished upon request respecting certain signs and wonders. The celestial revelation announced that through dissension among the upper classes the whole power over the army and treasury threatened to pass to one ruler, and the state was faced with loss of freedom (the gods seemed to point primarily at the proposal of Gaius Messius). The republicans soon descended from heaven to earth. The law as to the domain of Capua and the other laws issued by Caesar as consul had been constantly described by them as null and void, and an opinion had been expressed in the Senate as early as 57 B.C. that it was necessary to cancel them on account of their irregularity. Then, on April 6, 56 B.C., the consular Cicero proposed in a full Senate that the Campanian land distribution be debated on May 15.
It was the formal declaration of war, and all the more significant because it came from one of those men who only show their colors when they think that they can do so with safety. Evidently the aristocracy felt that the moment had come for beginning the struggle not with Pompey against Caesar, but against the regency generally. What would further follow might easily be seen. Domitius made no secret that he intended as consul to propose to the citizens the immediate recall of Caesar from Gaul. An aristocratic restoration was at work, and with the attack on the colony of Capua the nobility threw down the gauntlet to the regents.
Caesar, although receiving detailed daily accounts of events in the capital, and, when military considerations allowed, watching their progress from as nearby as possible, had not up to then openly interfered. But now war had been declared against his colleague and especially against him; he was compelled to act, and he acted quickly. He happened to be in the neighborhood, for the aristocracy had not even found it advisable to delay the rupture until he had crossed the Alps. Early in April of 56 B.C. Crassus left the capital to make the necessary arrangements with his more powerful colleague. He found Caesar in Ravenna, from whence both proceeded to Luca. There they were joined by Pompey, who had departed from Rome soon after Crassus, ostensibly for the purpose of procuring supplies of grain from Sardinia and Africa. The most noted adherents of the regents, such as Metellus Nepos the proconsul of Hither Spain, Appius Claudius the propraetor of Sardinia, and many others, followed them. A hundred and twenty lictors and upwards of two hundred senators were counted at this conference, a new monarchical Senate in contradistinction to the republican.
In every respect the decisive voice lay with Caesar. He used it to re-establish and consolidate the existing joint rule on a new basis of more equal distribution of power. The governorships of most importance from a military point of view, next to that of the two Gauls, were assigned to his two colleagues, the two Spains to Pompey, Syria to Crassus. These offices were to be secured to them by decree of the people for five years (54-50 B.C.), with suitable military and financial support. On the other hand Caesar demanded the prolongation of his command, which expired with the year 54 B.C., to the close of 49 B.C., as well as the prerogative of increasing his legions to ten and of making the state pay for the troops he arbitrarily levied. Pompey and Crassus were promised a second consulship for the next year (55 B.C.) before they departed for their governorships, while Caesar reserved the right to administer the supreme magistracy a second time after the end of his governorship in 48 B.C., when the ten years’ interval legally required between two consulships should have elapsed. The military support which Pompey and Crassus needed all the more urgently in the capital, now that Caesar’s legions originally intended for this purpose could not be withdrawn from Transalpine Gaul, was to be found in new legions they were to raise for the Spanish and Syrian armies, but were not to despatch from Italy until they found it convenient to do so.
The main questions were thus settled, and such subordinate matters as the tactics to be followed against the opposition in the capital, the regulation of the candidacies for the ensuing years, etc., did not long detain them. The great master of mediation composed with his wonted ease the personal differences which stood in the way of an agreement, and compelled the most refractory elements to act in concert. An understanding befitting colleagues was re-established, externally at least, between Pompey and Crassus. Even Publius Clodius was induced to keep himself and his pack quiet, and to give no further annoyance to Pompey—not the least marvelous feat of the mighty magician.
The circumstances reveal that this whole settlement proceeded not from a compromise among independent and rival regents meeting on equal terms, but solely from the good will of Caesar. Pompey appeared at Luca in the painful position of a powerless refugee who comes to ask aid from his opponent. Whether Caesar chose to dismiss him and declare the coalition dissolved, or to receive him and let the league continue just as it stood, Pompey was in either case politically annihilated. If he did not in this case break with Caesar, he became the powerless dependent of his confederate. If on the other hand he did break with Caesar and, which was not very probable, effected even now a coalition with the aristocracy, the last-minute alliance between opponents concluded under pressure of necessity was so little formidable that Caesar need hardly put himself out to avert it. A serious rivalry on the part of Crassus with Caesar was utterly impossible.
It is difficult to say what motives induced Caesar to surrender his superior position and to grant voluntarily the second consulate and a military command—concessions which he had refused his rival even at the consummation of the league in 60 B.C., and which the latter had since (with the evident intent of being armed against Caesar) vainly striven to attain without Caesar’s help and even against his will. To be sure, it was not Pompey alone that was placed at the head of an army, but also Pompey’s old enemy and Caesar’s long-time ally Crassus; and undoubtedly Crassus obtained his respectable military position merely as a counterpoise to Pompey’s new power. Nevertheless, Caesar lost greatly when his rival exchanged his former powerlessness for an important command.
It is possible that Caesar did not yet feel himself sufficiently master of his soldiers to lead them confidently in a war against the established government, and was therefore anxious not to be forced into civil war now by being recalled from Gaul. But whether civil war came or not depended at the moment far more on the aristocracy of the capital than on Pompey. This would have been at most a reason for Caesar not breaking openly with Pompey, so that the opposition might not be emboldened by this breach, but not a reason for conceding what was conceded. Purely personal motives may have contributed to the result. It may be that Caesar recollected how he had once stood in a similar position before Pompey, and had been saved from destruction only by Pompey’s (pusillanimous, it is true, rather than magnanimous) retirement. It is probable that Caesar hesitated to break the heart of his beloved daughter who was sincerely attached to her husband, for in his soul there was room for much besides the statesman.
But the decisive reason was doubtless the consideration of Gaul. Caesar (as distinct from his biographers) regarded the subjugation of Gaul not as an incidental enterprise useful for gaining the crown, but as one on which depended his country’s external security and internal reorganization—in short, its future. That he might complete this conquest undisturbed, and not be obliged to take on at that moment the settlement of Italian affairs, he unhesitatingly gave up his superiority over his rivals and granted Pompey sufficient power to settle matters with the Senate and its adherents.
This was a grave political blunder, if Caesar had no other object than to become king of Rome as quickly as possible. But the ambition of that rare man was not confined to the vulgar aim of a crown. He had the boldness to prosecute side by side, and to complete, two equally vast labors—the arranging of the internal affairs of Italy, and the winning of new and fresh soil for Italian civilization. These tasks of course interfered with each other, and his Gallic conquests hindered much more than helped him on his way to the throne. Postponing the Italian revolution until 48 B.C., instead of settling it in 58 B.C., bore bitter fruit for him. But as statesman as well as general Caesar was that kind of daring player who, confident of himself and despising his opponents, gave always great and sometimes extravagant odds.
It was now the turn of the aristocracy to wage war as boldly as they had declared it. But there is no more pitiable spectacle than cowardly men who have the misfortune to take a bold resolution. They had simply exercised no foresight at all. It seemed to have occurred to nobody that Caesar would possibly stand his ground, or that even now Pompey and Crassus would again combine with him more closely than ever. This seems incredible, but it becomes intelligible when we glance at the leaders of the constitutional opposition in the Senate. With Cato still absent, the most influential man in the Senate was Marcus Bibulus, the hero of passive resistance, the most obstinate and stupid of all consulars. The aristocracy had taken up arms, only to lay them down as soon as the adversary merely put his hand to the sheath.
The mere news of the conferences in Luca sufficed to suppress all thought of serious opposition and to bring the mass of the timid—that is, the immense majority of the Senate—back to their duty as subjects, which in an unhappy hour they had abandoned. There was no further talk of the scheduled discussion to consider the validity of the Julian laws. The legions raised by Caesar on his own behalf were charged to the public chest by senatorial decree. The attempts, while arranging for the next consular provinces, to take away one or both Gauls from Caesar by decree were rejected by the Senate near the end of May, 56 B.C.
Thus the corporation did public penance. In secret the individual lords, one after another, thoroughly frightened at their own temerity, came to make their peace and vow unconditional obedience—none more quickly than Marcus Cicero, who repented too late of his perfidy, and with regard to the most recent period of his life clothed himself with titles of “honor” which were more appropriate than flattering. (“Me asinum germanum fuisse”—“I have been a complete ass.”) Of course the regents agreed to be pacified. They refused nobody pardon, for there was nobody worth making an exception over. How suddenly the tone in aristocratic circles changed, after the resolutions of Luca became known, may be seen by comparing the pamphlets given forth by Cicero shortly before with that which he caused to be issued as public evidence of his repentance and his good intentions.
The regents could thus arrange Italian affairs at their pleasure and more fully than before. Italy and the capital obtained what amounted to a garrison (although not assembled in arms) and one of the regents as commandant. Of the troops levied for Syria and Spain by Crassus and Pompey, those destined for the East took their departure. But Pompey caused the two Spanish provinces to be administered by his lieutenants with the garrison already there, while he furloughed the officers and soldiers of the legions nominally raised for dispatch to Spain, and remained himself with them in Italy.
Doubtless the tacit public resistance increased, the more clearly men perceived that the regents were working to end the old constitution and, with as much gentleness as possible, to accommodate the existing government and administration to the forms of monarchy. But they submitted, because they were obliged to submit. First, all the more important matters, particularly those relating to military affairs and external relations, were disposed of without consulting the Senate, sometimes by decree of the people and sometimes at the mere good pleasure of the rulers. The arrangements agreed on at Luca regarding the military command of Gaul were submitted directly to the citizens by Crassus and Pompey, those relating to Spain and Syria by the tribune of the people Gaius Trebonius, and in other instances the more important governorships were frequently filled by decree of the people. Caesar had already shown that the regents did not need any consent to increase their troops at pleasure, nor did they hesitate to borrow troops. Caesar, for instance, received support from Pompey for the Gallic war, and Crassus from Caesar for the Parthian war. The Transpadanes, who possessed under the existing constitution only Latin rights, were treated by Caesar during his administration practically as full citizens of Rome.
While formerly the organization of newly acquired territories had always been managed by a senatorial commission, Caesar organized his extensive Gallic conquests according to his own judgment, and, without having received any further powers, founded colonies such as Novum-Comum (Como), with 5,000 colonists. Piso conducted the Thracian, Gabinius the Egyptian, Crassus the Parthian war, without consulting the Senate, and without even the usual reports to that body. In like manner triumphs and other marks of honor were accorded without the Senate being asked about them.
Obviously this did not arise from a mere neglect of forms, which would be still less understandable since in the great majority of cases no senatorial opposition was to be expected. On the contrary, it was a well-calculated design to cut off the Senate from military arrangements and high policy, and to restrict it to financial questions and internal affairs. Even opponents plainly discerned this and protested against this conduct of the regents so far as they could, by means of senatorial decrees and criminal actions. While the regents thus in the main set aside the Senate, they still made some use of the less dangerous popular assemblies, though taking care that the lords of the street should not obstruct the plans of the lords of the state. In many cases, however, they dispensed even with this empty shadow, and employed openly autocratic forms.
The humbled Senate had to submit to its position whether it would or not. The leader of the compliant majority continued to be Marcus Cicero. He was useful for his lawyer’s talent of finding reasons, or at any rate words, for everything; and there was a genuine Caesarian irony in employing the man, by means of whom mainly the aristocracy had conducted their demonstrations against the regents, as the mouthpiece of servility. Accordingly the regents pardoned him for his brief desire to kick against the pricks, having previously assured themselves of his complete submissiveness. His brother had been obliged to become an officer in the Gallic army, thus also becoming a hostage. Pompey had compelled Cicero himself to accept a nominal deputy position under him, which furnished a means for politely banishing him at any moment. Clodius had doubtless been instructed to leave him meanwhile at peace, but Caesar no more discarded Clodius on account of Cicero than he discarded Cicero on account of Clodius; thus the great savior of his country, and the equally great hero of liberty, entered into an antechamber rivalry for whose illustration there was unfortunately no Roman Aristophanes.
Not only was the same rod, which already had once descended on him so severely, kept in suspense over Cicero’s head; golden fetters were also laid upon him. Amid his serious financial embarrassment, the interest-free loans of Caesar, and the joint overseership of those buildings which occasioned the circulation of enormous sums in the capital, were in a high degree welcome to him. Many an immortal oration was nipped in the bud by the thought of Caesar’s agent, who might present a bill to him after the close of the sitting. Consequently he vowed “in future to ask no more after right and honor, but to strive for the favor of the regents,” and “to be as flexible as an earlap.” They used him accordingly as what he was good for, an advocate. In this capacity he had on various occasions to defend his very bitterest foes at a higher bidding, especially in the Senate, where he often served as the organ of the dynasts and submitted the proposals “to which others probably consented, but not he himself.” Indeed, as recognized leader of the party of spinelessness, he even attained a certain political importance. The regents dealt with the other members of the governing corporation accessible to fear, flattery, or gold in the same way as they had dealt with Cicero, and succeeded in keeping them on the whole in subjection.
Certainly there remained a section of their opponents who at least kept to their colors, and who were neither to be terrified nor won over. The regents had become convinced that exceptional measures, such as those once used against Cato and Cicero, did their cause more harm than good, and that it was a lesser evil to tolerate an inconvenient republican opposition than to convert their opponents into martyrs. Therefore they allowed Cato to return near the end of 56 B.C., and thenceforward both in the Senate and in the Forum, often at the peril of his life, he offered a continuous opposition to the regents which was doubtless honorable, but unhappily was at the same time ridiculous.
The regents allowed him, in the debate on the proposals of Trebonius, to push matters once more to a hand-to-hand conflict in the Forum, and to submit to the Senate a proposal that the proconsul Caesar should be given over to the Usipetes and Tencteri on account of his perfidious conduct toward those barbarians. They were patient when Marcus Favonius, Cato’s Sancho Panza, after the Senate had adopted the resolution to charge the legions of Caesar to the state-chest, sprang to the door of the senate house and proclaimed to the streets the danger to the country; when the same person in his scurrilous fashion called the white bandage which Pompey wore round his weak leg a displaced diadem; when the consular Lentulus Marcellinus, on being applauded, called out to the assembly to make diligent use of this privilege of expressing their opinion now while they were still allowed to do so; when the tribune of the people Gaius Ateius Capito consigned Crassus, with all the formalities of the theology of the day, publicly to the evil spirits on the occasion of his departure for Syria.
These were, on the whole, vain demonstrations of an irritated minority. Yet the little party from which they issued was to this degree important, that on the one hand it fostered and gave the watchword to the republican opposition fermenting in secret, and on the other hand now and then dragged the majority of the Senate (which cherished at bottom quite the same sentiments with reference to the regents) into isolated actions against them. For even the majority felt the need of giving vent to their suppressed indignation, at least sometimes and in subordinate matters, especially (after the manner of those who are reluctantly servile) by exhibiting their resentment towards the great foes in rage against the small. Wherever it was possible, a gentle blow was administered to the instruments of the regents. Thus Gabinius was refused the thanksgiving festival that he asked, and Piso was recalled from his province. Thus mourning was put on by the Senate, when the tribune of the people Gaius Cato hindered the elections for 55 B.C. as long as the consul Marcellinus, who belonged to the constitutional party, was in office. Even Cicero, however humbly he always bowed before the regents, issued an equally envenomed and insipid pamphlet against Caesar’s father-in-law.
But these feeble signs of opposition by the senatorial majority, and the ineffectual resistance of the minority, show only the more clearly that the government had now passed from the Senate to the regents as it had once passed from the citizens to the Senate. The Senate was already not much more than a monarchical council of state also employed to absorb the antimonarchical elements. “No man,” the adherents of the fallen government complained, “is of the slightest account except the three. The regents are all-powerful, and they take care that no one shall remain in doubt about it. The whole Senate is virtually transformed and obeys the dictators; our generation will not live to see a change of things.” They were living in fact no longer under the republic, but under monarchy.
But if the guidance of the state was at the absolute disposal of the regents, there remained still a political domain separated in some measure from the government proper, which was more easy to defend and more difficult to conquer—the field of ordinary magisterial elections, and that of the jury courts. It is clear that the latter do not fall directly under politics, but everywhere, and above all in Rome, partly reflect the spirit of the times. The elections of magistrates were certainly a part of the government of the state. But since at this time the state was administered substantially by extraordinary magistrates or by men wholly without title, and even the supreme magistrates, if they belonged to the antimonarchical party, were not able in any tangible way to influence the state machinery, the ordinary magistrates more and more resembled mere puppets. When in fact even those who were most disposed to opposition described themselves frankly and correctly as powerless ciphers, their elections therefore sank into mere demonstrations. Thus, after the opposition had already been wholly dislodged from the proper field of battle, hostilities might nevertheless be continued in the field of elections and of processes.
The regents spared no pains to become victors in this field also. As to the elections, they had already settled at Luca the lists of candidates for the next years, and they left no means untried to carry the candidates agreed upon there. They expended their gold primarily for the purpose of influencing the elections. A great number of soldiers were dismissed annually on furlough from the armies of Caesar and Pompey to take part in the voting at Rome, and Caesar himself was wont to guide and watch over the election campaigns from as near a point in Upper Italy as possible.
Yet the object was but very imperfectly attained. For 55 B.C. Pompey and Crassus were indeed elected consuls, in agreement with the arrangements at Luca, and Lucius Domitius, the only candidate of the opposition who persevered, was set aside. But this had been effected only by open violence, on which occasion Cato was wounded and other extremely scandalous incidents occurred. In the next consular elections, despite all the exertions of the regents, Domitius was actually elected, and Cato also now prevailed in the race for the praetorship, which Caesar’s tool Vatinius had won the previous year to the scandal of the whole citizenry. At the elections for 53 B.C. the opposition succeeded in so indisputably convicting the regency candidates (along with others) of the most shameful electioneering intrigues that the regents, on whom the scandal recoiled, could not do otherwise than abandon them.
These repeated and severe defeats of the dynasts in the elections may be traceable in part to the unmanageableness of the rusty machinery, to the incalculable accidents of the polling, to the opposition at heart of the middle classes, and to the various private considerations that interfere in such cases and often strangely clash with those of party. But the main cause lies elsewhere. The elections were at this time essentially in the power of the different clubs into which the aristocracy had grouped themselves. The system of bribery was organized by them on the most extensive scale and with the utmost care. The same aristocracy which was represented in the Senate also ruled the elections. But while in the Senate it yielded grudgingly, here it worked and voted, in secret and secure from all reckoning, wholeheartedly against the regents. That the nobility’s influence in this field was by no means broken by the strict law against electioneering intrigues, which Crassus as consul in 55 B.C. caused to be confirmed by the citizens, is proved by the elections of the succeeding years.
The jury courts caused equally great difficulty to the regents. As they were then composed, the decisive voice lay chiefly with the middle class, though the senatorial nobility was also influential. The setting of a high property qualification for jurymen under a law proposed by Pompey in 55 B.C. is a remarkable proof that the opposition to the regents had its center in the middle class proper, and that the great capitalists showed themselves as usual more compliant. Nevertheless the republican party was not yet deprived of all hold in the courts, and it was never weary of directing political impeachments, not indeed against the regents themselves, but against their prominent instruments. This warfare of prosecutions was waged the more keenly since by custom the duty of accusation belonged to the senatorial youth, and, as may readily be conceived, there was more of republican passion, fresh talent, and bold delight in attack to be found among these youths than among the older members of their order.2
On the whole, therefore, in the sphere of the popular elections and of the jury courts it was the regents who fared worst. The controlling factors here were less tangible, and therefore more difficult to be terrified or corrupted, than the direct organs of government and administration. The holders of power encountered here, especially in the popular elections, the tough energy of a close oligarchy grouped in cliques, which is by no means finally disposed of when its rule is overthrown, and which is the more difficult to vanquish the more covert its action. They also encountered, especially in the jury courts, the repugnance of the middle classes towards the new monarchical rule. Thus they suffered in both quarters a series of defeats. The election victories of the opposition had, it is true, merely the value of demonstrations, since the regents possessed and employed the means of practically annulling any magistrate whom they disliked. However, the criminal trials in which the opposition secured condemnations deprived them, in a way keenly felt, of useful auxiliaries. As things stood, the regents could neither set aside nor adequately control the popular elections and the jury courts; and the opposition, however much it felt itself constrained even here, maintained to a certain extent the field of battle.
It proved, moreover, a still more difficult task to encounter the opposition in another field, to which it turned with greater zeal the more it was dislodged from direct political action. This was literature. Even the judicial opposition was also a literary one, and indeed pre-eminently so, for the orations were regularly published and served as political pamphlets. The arrows of poetry hit their mark still more rapidly and sharply. The lively youth of the high aristocracy, and still more energetically perhaps the cultivated middle class in the Italian country towns, waged the war of pamphlets and epigrams with zeal and success. There fought side by side on this field the genteel senator’s son Gaius Licinius Calvus (82-48 B.C.), who was as much feared as an orator and pamphleteer as a versatile poet, and the municipals of Cremona and Verona, Marcus Furius Bibaculus (102-C.20 B.C.) and Quintus Verleius Catullus (87 to about 54 B.C.), whose elegant and pungent epigrams flew swiftly and surely like arrows through Italy.
An oppositional tone prevails throughout the literature of these years. It is full of indignant sarcasm against the “great Caesar,” “the unique general,” against the affectionate father-in-law and son-in-law who ruin the whole globe in order to let their dissolute favorites parade the spoils of the long-haired Celts through the streets of Rome, to furnish royal banquets with the booty of the farthest isles of the west, and as rich rivals to supplant honest youths at home in the favor of their mistresses. There is in the poems of Catullus and the other fragments of the literature of this period something of that fervor of personal and political hatred, of that republican agony overflowing in riotous humor or stern despair, which are more prominently and powerfully apparent in Aristophanes and Demosthenes.
The most sagacious of the three rulers at least saw well that it was as impossible to despise this opposition as to suppress it by word of command. So far as he could, Caesar rather tried personally to win over the more notable authors. Cicero himself had his literary reputation to thank in large part for the respectful treatment which he received especially from Caesar. But the governor of Gaul did not disdain to conclude a special peace even with Catullus himself, through the intervention of his father who had become personally known to him in Verona; and the young poet, who had just heaped upon the powerful general the bitterest and most personal sarcasms, was treated with the most flattering distinction. In fact, Caesar was gifted enough to meet his literary opponents on their own field and to publish (as an indirect way of repelling manifold attacks) a detailed report on the Gallic wars, which set forth with happily assumed naïveté the necessity and constitutional propriety of his military operations.
But it is freedom alone that is absolutely and exclusively poetical and creative; it and it alone is able, even in its most wretched caricature and with its dying breath, to inspire fresh enthusiasm. All the sound elements of literature were, and remained, antimonarchical. If Caesar himself could venture on this field without proving a failure, the reason was merely that even now he still cherished at heart the magnificent dream of a free commonwealth, although he was unable to transfer it either to his adversaries or to his adherents. Practical politics was not more absolutely controlled by the regents than literature by the republicans.
It became necessary to take serious steps against this opposition, which though powerless was becoming ever more troublesome and audacious. The condemnation of Gabinius at the end of 54 B.C. apparently tipped the scale. The regents agreed to introduce a dictatorship, though only a temporary one, and by means of this to carry new coercive measures especially concerning the elections and the jury courts. Pompey, as the regent on whom primarily devolved the government of Rome and Italy, was charged with the execution of this resolve. Accordingly, it was marked by his characteristic awkwardness in resolution and action, as well as his singular incapacity to speak out frankly even where he would and could command.
Toward the close of 54 B.C. the demand for a dictatorship was hinted to the Senate, though not by Pompey himself. Its ostensible ground was the continuance of the system of clubs and bands in the capital, which by acts of bribery and violence certainly exercised the most pernicious pressure on the elections as well as on the jury courts, and kept the city in a perpetual state of disturbance. We must allow that this rendered it easy for the regents to justify their exceptional measures. But, as may well be conceived, even the servile majority shrank from granting what the future dictator seemed to shrink from asking openly. When the unparalleled agitation regarding the elections for the consulship of 53 B.C. led to the most scandalous scenes, so that the elections were postponed a full year beyond the fixed time and took place only after a seven months’ interregnum in July of 53, Pompey found in this state of things the desired occasion for indicating distinctly to the Senate that the dictatorship was the only means of cutting, if not of loosing, the knot. Even then, however, the decisive word of command was not spoken. Perhaps it would have remained long unuttered had not the most audacious partisan of the republican opposition, Titus Annius Milo, stepped into the field at the consular elections for 52 B.C. as a candidate opposing the regency’s choices, Quintus Metellus Scipio and Publius Plautius Hypsaeus, both of whom were closely connected with Pompey personally and thoroughly devoted to him.
Milo, endowed with physical courage, with a certain talent for intrigue and for contracting debt, and above all with an ample amount of native assurance which had been carefully cultivated, had made himself a name among the political adventurers of the day. He was the greatest bully in his trade next to Clodius, and naturally therefore at deadly odds with the latter. As this latter Achilles of the streets had been acquired by the regents and with their permission was again playing the ultrademocrat, the Hector of the streets became as a matter of course an aristocrat! The republican opposition, which now would have concluded an alliance with Catiline himself, readily acknowledged Milo as their legitimate champion in all riots. In fact, the few successes which they achieved in this field of battle were the work of Milo and his well-trained band of gladiators. So Cato and his friends in return supported the candidacy of Milo for the consulship. Even Cicero could not avoid recommending one who had been his enemy’s enemy and his own protector during many years; and as Milo himself spared neither money nor violence, his election seemed certain.
For the regents this would have been not only a new and keenly felt defeat but also a real danger, for the bold partisan would surely not allow himself as consul to be reduced to insignificance so easily as Domitius and the other opposition respectables. It happened that this Achilles and Hector accidentally encountered each other not far from the capital on the Appian Way, and a fray arose between their respective bands, in which Clodius himself received a sword cut on the shoulder and was compelled to take refuge in a neighboring house. This had occurred without orders from Milo. However, as the matter had gone so far and as the storm now had to be encountered in any case, the whole crime seemed to Milo more desirable and less dangerous than the half. Therefore he ordered his men to drag Clodius forth from his lurking place and to put him to death.
The street leaders of the regents’ party—the tribunes Titus Munatius Plancus, Quintus Pompeius Rufus, and Gaius Sallustius Crispus—saw in this occurrence a golden opportunity to thwart the candidacy of Milo and carry the dictatorship of Pompey. Since the dregs of the populace, especially the freedmen and slaves, had lost in Clodius their patron and future deliverer, the requisite excitement was easily aroused. After the bloody corpse had been exhibited at the orators’ platform in the Forum and the appropriate speeches had been made, the riot broke out.
The seat of the perfidious aristocracy was apparently destined as the funeral pile of the great liberator, for the mob carried the body to the senate house and set the building on fire. Thereafter the multitude proceeded to Milo’s house, keeping it under siege till his band drove off the assailants by discharges of arrows. They then passed on to the houses of Pompey and his consular candidates, saluting the former as dictator and the latter as consuls, and thence to the house of the interrex Marcus Lepidus, on whom devolved the conduct of the consular elections. When the latter, as his duty dictated, refused to make the immediate arrangements for the elections which the clamorous multitude demanded, he was kept under siege in his house for five days.
But the instigators of these scandalous scenes had overacted their part. Certainly their lord and master sought to employ this favorable episode not merely to set aside Milo, but also to seize the dictatorship. However, he wished to receive it from the Senate, not from a mob of bludgeon-men. Pompey brought up troops to put down the anarchy in the capital, which had become intolerable to everybody. At the same time he now demanded what he had hitherto requested, and the Senate complied. It was merely an empty subterfuge that on the proposal of Cato and Bibulus the proconsul Pompey, retaining his former offices, was nominated as “consul without colleague” instead of dictator.
Thus in legal possession of full power, Pompey proceeded energetically against the republican party which was powerful in the clubs and the jury courts. The existing enactments as to elections were repeated and enforced by a special law, while another one, retroactive to 70 B.C., increased the penalties hitherto imposed. Still more important was the enactment that the governorships, by far the more important and especially the more lucrative half of official life, should be conferred on the consuls and praetors only after a waiting period of five years. Such an arrangement of course could only take effect after four years, which made the filling of the governorships during that period substantially dependent on special decrees of Senate, and thus in turn practically on the person or group ruling the Senate at the moment.
The jury commissions were left in existence, but limits were put to the right of counter-plea, and (perhaps still more important) freedom of speech in the courts was limited; for both the number of the advocates and the length of speeches were restricted by setting a maximum, and the prevailing bad practice of adducing character witnesses in favor of the accused, in addition to the witnesses as to the facts, was prohibited. The obsequious Senate further decreed, on Pompey’s suggestion, that the nation had been endangered by the quarrel on the Appian Way. Accordingly, a special commission was appointed for all crimes connected with it, the members of which were directly nominated by Pompey. An attempt was also made to give the office of censor a serious importance once more, and thereby to purge the deeply disordered citizenry of the worst rabble.
All these measures were adopted under pressure of the sword. In consequence of the Senate’s declaration that the country was in danger, Pompey called to arms the men capable of service throughout Italy and made them swear allegiance for all contingencies. An adequate and trustworthy corps was temporarily stationed at the Capitol, and at every stirring of opposition Pompey threatened armed intervention. During the proceedings at the trial regarding Clodius’ murder a guard was stationed, contrary to all precedent, over the place of trial itself.
The scheme for reviving the censorship failed, because among the servile majority of the Senate no one possessed sufficient moral courage and authority even to become a candidate. On the other hand Milo was condemned by the jurymen (on April 8, 52 B.C.), and Cato’s candidacy for the consulship the following year was frustrated. The literary opposition received through the new judicial ordinance a blow from which it never recovered, for the dreaded forensic eloquence was thereby driven from the field of politics, and thus felt the restraints of monarchy. Of course, opposition had not disappeared either from the minds of the great majority of the nation or even wholly from public life: to effect that end the popular elections, the jury courts, and literature must have been not merely restricted, but annihilated. Indeed, in these very transactions Pompey by his unskilfulness and perversity helped the republicans to gain even under his dictatorship several triumphs which he felt severely.
The special measures which the rulers took to strengthen their power were of course officially characterized as enactments made on behalf of public tranquility and order, and every citizen who did not desire anarchy was described as substantially concurring in them. But Pompey pushed this transparent fiction so far that instead of putting safe partisans on the special commission for investigating the recent tumult, he chose the most respectable men of all parties, even including Cato. He also applied his influence over the court primarily to maintain order, and to make it impossible for his adherents as well as for his opponents to indulge in the disturbances customary in the courts of this period.
This neutrality of the regent was recognizable in the verdicts of the special court. The jurymen did not venture to acquit Milo himself. However, most of the subordinate defendants belonging to the republican opposition were acquitted, while condemnation inexorably befell those who had aided Clodius (or in other words the regents) including not a few of Caesar’s and Pompey’s own most intimate friends—even Hypsaeus, his candidate for the consulship, and the tribunes of the people Plancus and Rufus, who had directed the riot in Pompey’s interest.
That Pompey did not prevent their condemnation, in the interest of appearing impartial, was one specimen of his folly. A second was that in unimportant matters he violated his own laws to favor his friends, for example appearing as a character witness in the trial of Plancus, and in fact protecting from condemnation several accused persons such as Metellus Scipio who were closely connected with him. As usual, here also he wished to accomplish opposite things. In attempting to satisfy simultaneously the duties of the impartial regent and of the party chief, he fulfilled neither the one nor the other, being justly regarded by public opinion as a despot, and with equal justice by his adherents as a leader who either could not or would not protect his followers.
But although the republicans were still stirring and were even refreshed by an isolated success here and there, chiefly through the blunders of Pompey, the regency’s objective in proposing the dictatorship was largely attained, the reins were drawn tighter, the republican party was humbled, and the new monarchy was strengthened. The public began to reconcile itself to the latter. When Pompey recovered from a serious illness, his restoration was celebrated throughout Italy with the accompanying demonstrations of joy which are usual on such occasions in monarchies. The regents showed themselves satisfied. On August 2, 52 B.C., Pompey resigned his dictatorship and shared the consulship with his friend Metellus Scipio.
Drawing of Julius Caesar at beginning of chapter, Bettmann Archive
1. Clodius also (Mommsen notes in the original) even proposed a law in later years to give full political rights to all freedmen and many slaves.
2. In the original Mommsen observes that the regents could still often protect their creatures, as Caesar protected Vatinius. But Gabinius was pursued so implacably by the aristocracy and the great capitalists that he was eventually exiled.