Cæsar became immensely rich—his debts were now all paid—the treasure returned to Rome did the general coffers fill, his name and fame were blazoned on the Roman streets.
When he returned he knew, and had always known, it would be as a conquering hero. Pompey and Crassus did not wish Cæsar to return. He was still governor of Gaul and should stay there. They made him governor—he must do as they required—they sent him his orders. "The die is cast," said Cæsar on reading the message. Immediately he crossed the Rubicon.
An army fights for a leader, not a cause. The leader's cause is theirs. Cæsar had led his men to victory, and he had done it with a comparatively small degree of danger. He never made an attack until every expedient for peace was exhausted. He sent word to each barbaric tribe to come in and be lovingly annexed, or else be annexed willy-nilly. He won, but through diplomacy where it was possible. When he did strike, it was quickly, unexpectedly and hard. The priest was as great a strategist as he was a diplomat. He pardoned his opposers when they would lay down their arms—he wanted success, not vengeance. But always he gave his soldiers the credit.
They were loyal to him.
Pompey and Crassus could not oppose a man like this—they fled.
Cæsar's most faithful and trusted colleague was Mark Antony, seventeen years his junior—a slashing, dashing, audacious, exuberant fellow.
Cæsar became dictator, really king or emperor. He ruled with moderation, wisely and well. He wore the purple robe of authority, but refused the crown. He was honored, revered, beloved. The habit of the Pontiff still clung to him—he called the people, "My children."
The imperturbable calm of the man of God was upon him. His courage was unimpeachable, but caution preserved him from personal strife. That he could ever be approached by one and all was his pride.
But clouds were beginning to gather.
He had pardoned his enemies, but they had not forgiven him.