The Senate had refused. A levy had been ordered through Italy,
and the legions designed for Parthia had been retained. Such an attitude
could have but one meaning. Yet he was still ready to make peace. Let
Pompey depart to Spain. His own troops should then be dismissed. The
elections could be held freely, and Senate and people would be restored to
their joint authority. If this was not enough, they two might meet and
relieve each other's alarms and suspicions in a personal interview.
With this answer the envoys went, and Caesar paused at Rimini. Meanwhile
the report reached Rome that Caesar had crossed the Rubicon. The
aristocracy had nursed the pleasant belief that his heart would fail him,
or that his army would desert him. His heart had not failed, his army had
not deserted; and, in their terror, they saw him already in their midst
like an avenging Marius. He was coming. His horse had been seen on the
Apennines. Flight, instant flight, was the only safety. Up they rose,
consuls, praetors, senators, leaving wives and children and property to
their fate, not halting even to take the money out of the treasury, but
contenting themselves with leaving it locked. On foot, on horseback, in
litters, in carriages, they fled for their lives to find safety under
Pompey's wing in Capua. In this forlorn company went Cicero, filled with
contempt for what was round him.
Pages:
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492