He had shared the spoils of his
conquests with them. Time and leisure had alone been wanting to him to
recompense their splendid fidelity in the campaigns in Spain and Greece.
He had treated them as his children; no commander had ever been more
careful of his soldiers' lives; when addressing the army he had called
them always "commilitones," "comrades," "brothers-in-arms."
The familiar word was now no longer heard from him. "You say well,
quirites," [2] he answered; "you have labored hard, and you have
suffered much; you desire your discharge--you have it. I discharge you who
are present. I discharge all who have served their time. You shall have
your recompense. It shall never be said of me that I made use of you when
I was in danger, and was ungrateful to you when the peril was past."
"Quirites" he had called them; no longer Roman legionaries, proud of their
achievements, and glorying in their great commander, but "quirites"--plain
citizens. The sight of Caesar, the familiar form and voice, the words,
every sentence of which they knew that he meant, cut them to the heart.
They were humbled, they begged to be forgiven. They said they would go
with him to Africa, or to the world's end. He did not at once accept their
penitence. He told them that lands had been allotted to every soldier out
of the _ager publicus_, or out of his own personal estates.
Pages:
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577