Enduring Problems in Fathoming Caesar

The difficulty of understanding that character, which was a practical problem for many of his contemporaries, contributes to the fascination which Caesar continues to exercise as a historical figure. The mystery of his intentions, and the controversies generated by that mystery, run through the essays in this volume and give them a thematic unity. But the contributors have also taken seriously the aim of Blackwell’s Companions to encourage readers to enter into the debate themselves, by making liberal use of source material and by indicating areas of contention. Readers will be exposed to some very different points of view: some old, some new.

Were Caesar’s early ambitions just the ordinary ones to be expected in a Roman aristocrat and member of the governing class (Badian, chapter 2; Gruen, chapter 3)? Or was he always, as Lucan, Plutarch, and Dio tend to see him (Leigh, chapter 17; Pelling, chapter 18; Pitcher, chapter 19), determined ‘‘not to bear an equal’’? If so, in which direction did his ambition point - to be the equal of Alexander as a conqueror, or to be the ruler of Rome and its empire? (See Zanker, chapter 21, pp. 289-96 on the different visual representations.) As a politician, did Caesar cultivate a consistently popularis image down to the Dictatorship, being anti-Sullan in constitutional matters and ideologically committed to increasing the power and amenities of the people (Badian, chapter 2; Steel, chapter 9), or was he, more pragmatically, concerned to heal the wounds of civil conflict in the eighties and to prevent discontent among the subjects of Rome (Gruen, chapter 3)?

Did his charm and warmth go with a serious commitment to his friends, or was his conception of friendship a matter of opportunistic political alliances (Steel, chapter 9)? How do his intellectual projects, his interest in language, in ethnography, and in systematization in general, fit with his ambitions (Fantham, chapter 11)? Was his clemency to his opponents in the civil war a matter of opportunistic calculation, pragmatic policy, or genuine softness of heart (Paterson, chapter 10)?

Did Caesar cross the Rubicon to defend his dignitas and the rights of tribunes, as he says in the Civil Wars (1.7), or was he genuinely afraid of prosecution, as his friend Pollio thought (Suet. lul. 30: see Ramsey, chapter 4, p. 48)? How genuine were his conciliatory offers to effect a compromise? Does his legislation in his consulship, and later as Dictator, add up to a coherent vision for Rome? In particular, did he have a constitutional solution in mind, or was he ‘‘stuck,’’ unable to devise one - or at least one that would be acceptable, as his friend Matius thought (Cic. Att. 14.1): ‘‘If he, with all his genius, could not find a way out, who will find it now?’’ Did he decide to campaign in Parthia in order to escape the vexations and frustrations of the Roman political scene, or did he hope to return with such power that there would be no more resistance to his monarchic rule? Did he have a plan for the succession? Was his acceptance of divine honors a reluctant concession to sycophantic followers, or a case of entrapment by his enemies, who counted on his hunger for glory (Zanker, chapter 21)? Or was it a way of ensuring his own posthumous deification (Wardle, chapter 8)?

The contrary judgments pronounced on Caesar’s murder, and the ambiguous actions taken after his death, show how unresolved these questions about Caesar and his intentions were at the time. Cicero was clearly struggling in De Officiis to find a philosophical justification for the questionable act of killing a friend. Antony had the Dictatorship abolished but made sure that Caesar’s promises, policies, and memory, were honored. Caesar’s grand-nephew Octavian, who ultimately succeeded him as Augustus Caesar, had him deified but still expressed respect for Cicero and Cato: it is not clear what role he thought Caesar’s memory should play in the ideology of the new regime (Toher, chapter 16; Levick, chapter 15). It is thus not surprising that, later on, his biographer Suetonius should decide that while, on the one hand, he was ‘‘rightly killed,’’ because of his acceptance of excessive honors and his demonstration of contempt for the Republican constitution, yet, on the other, his murder was a crime for which his assassins were rightly punished (lul. 76-9, 89).

Once the new system of the Principate was entrenched, it was easy to think that Caesar’s assassins had just been vainly resisting the inevitable direction of history, which Caesar was following. But whenever a Princeps became a tyrant, veneration for Caesar’s opponents would surface. Throughout later history, monarchical rulers might either claim him as a forerunner or avoid comparison with him as a potential murder victim. Opponents of rulers might see in him either an inspiring enlightened reformer, or a justly murdered demagogue, usurper, and tyrant (McLaughlin, chapter 23; Biskup, chapter 26; Cole, chapter 28).