Dictator

The moment was all the sweeter for having been preceded by such bitter despair. ‘This is your victory!’ he shouted from the rostra to the thousands in the Forum. ‘No,’ they called back, ‘it is your victory!’ The following day in the Senate he proposed that Pansa, Hirtius and Octavian should be honoured by an unprecedented fifty days of public thanksgiving, and a monument erected to the fallen: ‘Brief is the life given us by nature; but the memory of a life nobly sacrificed is everlasting.’ None of his enemies dared oppose him: either they stayed away from the session or voted tamely as he asked. Every time he stepped out of doors he was cheered. He was at his zenith. All he needed now was the final official confirmation that Antony was dead.

A week later came a dispatch from Octavian:

From G. Caesar to his friend Cicero.

I am scribbling this by lamplight in my camp on the evening of the twenty-first. I wanted to be the first to tell you that we have won a second great victory over the enemy. For a week, my legions, in close alliance with those of the gallant Hirtius, probed the defences of Antony’s camp for weaknesses. Last night we found a suitable place and this morning we attacked. The fighting was bloody and obstinate, the slaughter great. I was in the midst of it. My standard-bearer was killed beside me. I shouldered the eagle and carried it. This rallied our men. Decimus, seeing that the decisive moment had arrived, at last led his forces out of Mutina and joined the battle. The greater part of Antony’s army was destroyed. The villain himself, with his cavalry, has fled, and judging by the direction of his flight he means to cross the Alps.

So much is wonderful. But now I must tell you the hard part. Hirtius, despite his failing health, advanced with great spirit into the very heart of the enemy camp and had reached Antony’s own tent when he was struck down by a fatal sword thrust to his neck. I have retrieved his body and will return it to Rome, where I am sure you will see that he receives the honours due to a brave consul. I shall write again when I can. Perhaps you will tell his sister.

When he had finished reading, Cicero passed me the letter, then clenched his fists together and raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I thank the gods I have been allowed to see this moment.’

‘Though it is a pity about Hirtius,’ I added. I was thinking of all those dinners under the stars in Tusculum.

‘True – I am very sorry for his sake. Still: how much better to die swiftly and gloriously in battle rather than lingeringly and squalidly on a sickbed. This war has been waiting for a hero. I shall make it my business to put Hirtius on the vacant plinth.’

He took Octavian’s letter with him to the Senate that morning, intending to read it aloud, to deliver ‘the eulogy to end all eulogies’ and to propose a state funeral for Hirtius. It was a measure of his buoyant spirits that he could take the loss of a consul so lightly. On the steps of the Temple of Concordia he met the urban praetor, who was also just arriving. Senators were streaming in to take their places. The auspices were being taken. Cornutus was grinning. He said, ‘I surmise by your expression that you too have heard the news of Antony’s final defeat?’

‘I am in raptures. Now we must make sure the villain doesn’t escape.’

‘Oh, take it from an old soldier – we have more than enough men to cut him off. A pity, though, that it cost us the life of a consul.’

‘Indeed – a wretched business.’ Side by side the two men began to climb the steps towards the entrance. Cicero said, ‘I thought I would deliver a eulogy, if that is all right by you.’