Cato the Younger

The Monumental Search for the True Self We often treat history as a sterile collection of dates and dusty ledgers, yet it serves a far more vital psychological function. Friedrich Nietzsche argued that history could either drain the life out of a person, turning them into a "crippled shell" of knowledge, or it could "quicken and enliven" the soul. This enlivening approach is what Alex Petkas identifies as the monumental mode of history. It is not about memorizing the precise year a wall was built; it is about finding resonance. You look back at the greats not to mimic their clothes, but to find an echo of the greatest thing you could do with your own life. Julius Caesar provides the ultimate example of this psychological resonance. While serving as a quester in Spain, he encountered a statue of Alexander the Great in the Temple of Hercules. While his companions moved through the gallery like casual tourists, Caesar broke down in tears. When asked why he was weeping, he lamented that by Alexander's age, the Macedonian had conquered the known world, while Caesar himself had done nothing worthy of renown. This moment was not about vanity; it was a painful awakening to the gap between his current reality and his inherent potential. It was the moment he realized he had been "screwing around" and finally identified his destiny. Bloodlines and the Sabura Streets To understand the ambition that drove Caesar to the Rubicon, we must look at his childhood in the Sabura. Despite descending from the Julius clan—a family that claimed descent from Venus and the mythic founder Aeneas—his family was functionally "poor respectability." They lived in a seedy, dangerous part of Rome filled with brothels and bars. This upbringing gave Caesar a unique advantage: he was comfortable in the underbelly of the city, playing dice in the streets, yet possessed the blue-blooded pedigree to challenge the elite. His political identity was forged through his uncle, Gaius Marius, a legendary populist and military reformer who was a self-made outsider. Caesar grew up in the shadow of this tension between the "Optimates"—the aristocratic establishment that monopolized tradition—and the "Populares," who fought for land reform and meritocracy. When the dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla seized power and began his reign of terror, he ordered the eighteen-year-old Caesar to divorce his wife, Cornelia, the daughter of a populist enemy. Caesar’s refusal was his first great act of defiance. He chose to become a fugitive rather than a subordinate. Even Sulla recognized the danger, famously warning that there were "many Mariuses" in that one boy. The Psychology of Radical Loyalty Caesar’s rise was fueled by a magnetic ability to bind others to his cause through extreme loyalty and shared hardship. He didn't just command his legions; he inhabited their reality. He knew the names of his centurions, ate the same rancid olive oil as his privates, and slept on the bare ground if his officers were forced to do so. This created a cult of personality that made his soldiers view themselves as a breed apart from the rest of the Roman army. This bond was so strong that it bordered on the fanatical. During the civil war, a ship captain named Granius Petro was captured by Caesar's enemies. When offered his life on the condition that he tell Caesar the war was futile, Petro replied that Caesar’s soldiers were accustomed to giving mercy, not receiving it, and promptly stabbed himself to death. This brand of loyalty wasn't bought; it was earned through Caesar’s willingness to fight in the front lines. During the siege of Pompey the Great, Caesar’s men were reduced to eating bread made from baked weeds. When they catapulted these "cow patties" over the wall to their well-fed enemies, Pompey reportedly cried out that he was fighting "beasts" who would rather eat tree bark than surrender. The Triumvirate and the End of Friendship For much of their careers, Caesar and Pompey the Great were allies, though their relationship was always a delicate balance of ego and necessity. The First Triumvirate—the alliance between Caesar, Pompey, and the financier Marcus Licinius Crassus—was essentially a brokerage deal. Caesar acted as the pivot point, getting legislation passed for the two older, more powerful men. The bond was solidified when Caesar married his daughter, Julia, to Pompey. By all accounts, the marriage was genuinely loving, serving as the "final tether" that kept the two generals from each other’s throats. When Crassus died in a disastrous campaign in Parthia and Julia died in childbirth, the tether snapped. The Senate, led by the rigid Stoic Cato the Younger, began whispering in Pompey's ear, convincing him that he was the only "shield" that could protect the Republic from Caesar’s revolutionary ambition. They successfully played on Pompey’s desire for establishment approval. As Caesar finished his conquest of Gaul, he realized he could not return to Rome without facing a rigged prosecution. Crossing the Rubicon was not his first choice, but it was the only one that didn't end in his political execution. When he crossed that stream, he wasn't just invading Italy; he was casting a die that would destroy the very Republic he claimed to be saving. Egyptian Intrigues and the Library Queen After defeating Pompey at the Battle of Pharsalus, Caesar followed his rival to Egypt. He arrived to find that the Egyptians had already murdered Pompey, presenting Caesar with his rival’s signet ring and severed head. This was the second time Caesar cried. He had wanted Pompey alive, believing that if they could only meet face-to-face, they could have settled the war. Instead, he was stuck in Alexandria in the middle of a civil war between Ptolemy XIII and Cleopatra. Cleopatra entered Caesar's life by smuggling herself into the palace rolled inside a mattress. Like Caesar, she was a master of the "monumental" gesture. At twenty years old, she was a polyglot who spoke Egyptian, Latin, and Syrian, and she understood that Caesar had a weakness for high-status, intelligent women. She was not merely a lover; she was a goddess-queen who offered Caesar a glimpse of a different kind of power—one that was divine, absolute, and dynastic. They had a son, Caesarion, whose existence threatened the very foundations of Roman tradition. In Egypt, Caesar saw a vision of a world where the ruler was the state, a concept that would eventually lead to his downfall in Rome. The Last Supper of the Dictator On the night of March 14, 44 BC, Caesar was having dinner at the house of his friend Lepidus. Among the guests was Decimus Brutus, a trusted lieutenant who had been with Caesar through the wars in Gaul. As Caesar sat clearing his administrative "inbox," signing letters of farewell (the Latin *valete*), the conversation turned to philosophy. Proposing a theme, Caesar asked: "What is the best kind of death?" While others debated the merits of a prepared, slow passing, Caesar declared that the best death is one that is "sudden, swift, and unexpected." He went home that night to an unsettled sleep, plagued by bad omens and his wife Calpurnia’s nightmares. The next morning, he almost stayed home, feeling out of sorts. It was Decimus Brutus—a man named in Caesar’s will as a second heir—who eventually persuaded him to ignore the omens and go to the Senate. Decimus appealed to Caesar’s ego, mocking him for listening to the "ravings of a woman." Caesar walked into the meeting at the Theater of Pompey and was surrounded by men he had pardoned and promoted. They struck him twenty-three times at the base of his rival’s statue. For the conspirators, the murder was an attempt to reclaim their agency; they refused to be "clients" in a world where Caesar was the only patron. Yet, as Alex Petkas notes, Caesar’s death didn't restore the Republic. It only proved that the lid holding the world together had been removed, plunging Rome into another decade of blood and fire. Caesar got the sudden death he wished for, but the Republic died with him.