HIS NAME WAS POLLIO ANT I WILL RECALL THE EXACT circumstances of our meeting, which took place just a week after my betrothal to Urgulanilla I was reading in the Apollo Library when along came Livy and a little brisk old man in the robe of a senator. Livy was saying: "It seems then, that we may as well abandon all hope of finding it, unless perhaps… Why, there's Sulpicius! He'll know if anyone does. Good morning, Sulpicius. I want you to do a favour for Asinius Polho and myself. There's a book we want to look at, a commentary by a Greek called Polemocles on Polybius's Military Tactics. I seem to remember coming across it here once, but the catalogue does not mention it and the librarians, here are perfectly useless." Sulpicius gnawed his beard for awhile and then said:

       "You've got the name wrong. Polemocrates was the name and he wasn't a Greek, in spite of his name, but a Jew. Fifteen years ago I remember seeing it on that top shelf, the fourth from the window, right at the back, and the title tag had just 'A Dissertation on Tactics' on it. Let me get it for you. I don't expect it's been moved since then."

       Then Livy saw me. "Hullo, my friend, how goes it? Do you know the famous Asinius Pollio?"

       I saluted them and Pollio said: "What's that you're reading, boy? Trash, I'll be bound, by the shamefaced way you hide it. Young fellows nowadays read only trash." He turned to Livy: "I bet you ten gold pieces that it's some wretched 'Art of Love', or Arcadian pastoral nonsense, or something of that sort."

       "I'll take the bet," said Livy. "Young Claudius is not that sort of young man at all. Well, Claudius, which of us wins?"

       I said, stammering, to Pollio: "I'm glad to say, sir, that you lose."

       Pollio frowned angrily at me; "What's that you say? Glad that I lose, eh? Is that a proper way to speak to an old man like me, and a senator too?"

       I said: "I said it in all respect, sir. I am glad that you lose. I should not like to hear this book called trash. It's your own history of the Civil Wars and, if I may venture to praise it, a very fine book indeed."

       Pollio's face changed. He beamed and chuckled and pulled out his purse, pressing the coins on Livy. Livy, with whom he seemed on terms of friendly animosity-if you know what I mean-refused them with mock-serious insistence. "My dear Pollio, I couldn't possibly take the money. You were quite right: these young fellows nowadays read the most wretched stuff. Not another word, please: I agree that I've lost the bet. Here are ten gold pieces of my own and I'm glad to pay them."

      Pollio appealed to me. "Now, sir-I don't know who you are but you seem to be a lad of sense-have you read our friend Livy's work? I appeal to you, isn't that at least trashier writing than mine?"

       I smiled. "Well, at least it's easier to read."

       "Easier, eh. How's that?"

       "He makes the people of Ancient Rome behave and talk as if they were alive now."

       Pollio was delighted. "He has you there, Livy, on your weakest spot. You credit the Romans of seven centuries ago with impossibly modern motives and habits and speeches. Yes, it's readable all right, but it's not history."

       Before I record more of this conversation I must say a few words about old Pollio, perhaps the most gifted man of his day, not even excepting Augustus. He was now nearly eighty years old but in full possession of his mental powers and seemingly in better physical health than many a man of sixty. He had crossed the Rubicon with Julius Caesar and fought with him against Pompey, and served under my grandfather Antony, before his quarrel with Augustus, and had been Consul and Governor of Further Spain and of Lombardy, and had won a triumph for a victory in the Balkans and had been a personal friend of Cicero's until he grew disgusted with him, and a patron of the poets, Virgil and Horace. Besides all this he was a distinguished orator and writer of tragedies. But he was a better historian than he was either tragedian or orator, because he had a love or literal truth, amounting to pedantry, which he could not square with the conventions or these other literary forms. With the spoils of the Balkan campaign he had founded a public library, the first public library at Rome. There were now two others: the one we were in and another called after my grandmother Octavia; but Pollio's was much better organized for reading purposes than either.

       Sulpicius had now found the book, and after a word oft hanks to him they renewed their argument.

       Livy said: "The trouble with Pollio is that when he writes history he feels obliged to suppress all his finer, more poetical feelings, and make his characters behave with conscientious dullness, and when he puts a speech into their mouths he denies them the least oratorical ability."

       Pollio said: "Yes, Poetry is Poetry, and Oratory is Oratory, and History is History, and you can't mix them."

       "Can't I? Indeed I can." said Livy. "Do you mean to say that I mustn't write a history with an epic theme because that's a prerogative of poetry or put worthy eve-or battle speeches in the mouths of my generals because to compose such speeches is the prerogative of oratory?"

       "That is precisely what I do mean. History is a true record of what happened, how people lived and died, what they did and said; an epic theme merely distorts the record. As for your general's speeches they are admirable as oratory but damnably unhistorical: not only is there no particle of evidence for any one of them, but they are inappropriate. I have heard more eve-of-battle speeches than most men and though the generals that made them, Caesar and Antony especially, were remarkably fine platform orators, they were all too good soldiers to try any platform business on the troops. They spoke to them in a conversational way, they did not orate. What sort of speech did Caesar make before the Battle of Pharsalia? Did he beg us to remember our wives and children and the sacred temples of Rome and the glories of our past campaigns? By God, he didn't! He climbed up on the stump of a pinetree with one of those monster-radishes in one hand and a lump of hard soldiers' bread in the other, and joked, between mouthfuls. Not dainty jokes but the real stuff told with the straightest face: about how chaste Pompey's life was compared with his own reprobate one. The things he did with that radish would have made an ox laugh. I remember one broad anecdote about how Pompey won his surname The Great-oh, that radish!-and another still worse one about how he himself had lost his hair in the Bazaar at Alexandria. I'd tell you them both now but for this boy here, and but for your being certain to miss the point, not having been educated in Caesar's camp. Not a word about the approaching battle except just at the close:

       'Poor old Pompey! Up against Julius Caesar and his men! What a chance he has!'"

       "You didn't put any of this in your history," said Livy. "Not in the public editions," said Pollio. "I'm not a fool. Still if you like to borrow the private Supplement which I have just finished writing, you'll find it there. But perhaps you'll never bother. I'll tell you the rest: Caesar was a wonderful mimic, you know, and he gave them Pompey's dying speech, preparatory to falling on his sword (the radish again-with the end bitten off). He railed, in Pompey's name, at the Immortal Gods for always allowing vice to triumph over virtue. How they laughed! Then he bellowed: 'And isn't it true, though Pompey says it? Deny it if you can, you damned fornicating dogs, you!' And he flung the half-radish at them. And the roar that went up! Never were there soldiers like Caesar's. Do you remember the song they sang at his French triumph?

       'Home we bring the bald whore-monger, Romans, lock your wives away.'"

       Livy said. "Pollio, my dear fellow, we were not discussing Caesar's morals, but the proper way to write history."

       Pollio said. "Yes, that's right. Our intelligent young friend was criticizing your method, under the respectful disguise of praising your readability. Boy, have you any further charges to bring against the noble Livy?"

       I said: "Please, sir, don't make me blush. I admire Livy's work greatly."

       "The truth, boy! Have you ever caught him out in any historical inaccuracies? You seem to be a fellow who reads a good deal."

       "I would rather not venture…"

      "Out with it. There must be something." So I said: "There is one thing that puzzles me, I confess. That is the story of Lars Porsena. According to Livy, Porsena tailed to capture Rome, being first prevented by the heroic behaviour of Horatius at the bridge and then dismayed by the astounding daring of Scaevola; Livy relates that Scaevola, captured after an attempt at assassinating Porsena, thrust his hand into the flame on the altar and swore that three hundred Romans like himself had bound themselves by an oath to take Porsena's life. And so Lars Porsena made peace. But I have seen the labyrinth tomb of Lars Porsena at Clusium and there is a frieze on it of Romans emerging from the City gate and being led under a yoke. There's an Etruscan priest with a pair of shears cutting off the beards of the Fathers. And even Dionysius of Halicamassus, who was very favourably disposed towards us, states that the Senate voted Porsena an ivory throne, a sceptre, a golden crown and a triumphal robe; which can only mean that they paid him sovereign honours. So perhaps Lars Porsena did capture Rome, in spite of Horatius and Scaivola. And Aruns the priest at Capua (he's supposed to be the last man who can read Etruscan inscriptions) told me last summer that according to Etruscan records the man who expelled the Tarquins from Rome was not Brutus but Porsena, and that Brutus and Collatinus, the first two Consuls at Rome, were merely the City Stewards appointed to collect his taxes."

       Livy grew quite angry. "I am surprised at you, Claudius. Have you no reverence for Roman tradition that you should believe the lies told by our ancient enemies to diminish our greatness?"

       "I only asked," I said humbly, "what really happened then."

       "Come on, Livy," said Pollio. "Answer the young student. What really happened?"

       Livy said; "Another time. Let's keep to the matter in hand now, which is a general discussion of the proper way to write history. Claudius, my friend, you have ambitions that way. Which of us two old worthies will you choose as a model?"

       "You make it very difficult for the boy, you fealous fellows," put in Sulpicius. "What do you expect him to answer?"

       "The truth will offend neither of us," answered Pollio.

       I looked from one face to the other. At last I said, "I think I would choose Pollio. As I am sure that I can never hope to attain Livy's inspired literary elegance, I shall do my best to imitate Pollio's accuracy and diligence."

       Livy grunted and was about to walk off, but Pollio restrained him. Bottling down his glee as well as he could he said: "Come, Livy, you won't grudge me one little disciple, will you, when you have them in regiments all over the world? Boy, did you ever hear about the old man from Cadiz? No, it's not dirty. In fact. it's rather sad. He came on foot to Rome, what to see? Not the temples or the theatres or the statues or the crowds or the shops or the Senate House. But a Man. What man? The man whose head is on the coins? No, no. A greater than he. He came to see none other than our friend Livy, whose works, it seems, he knew by heart. He saw him and saluted him and went straight back to Cadiz-where he immediately died; the disillusion and the long walk had been too much for him." Livy said; "At any rate my readers are genuine readers, Boy, do you know how Pollio has built up his reputation? Well, he's rich and has a very large, beautiful house and a surprisingly good cook. He invites a great crowd of literary people to dinner, gives them a perfect meal and afterwards casually picks up the latest volume of his history. He says humbly, 'Gentlemen, there are a few passages here that I am not quite sure about. I have worked very hard at them but they still need the final polish which I am counting on you to give them. By your leave…' Then he begins to read. Nobody listens very carefully. Everyone's belly is stuffed. *The cook's a genius they are all thinking. *The mullet with piquant sauce, and those fat stuffed thrushes and the wild-boar with truffles-when did I eat so well last? Not since Pollio's last reading, I believe. Ah, here comes the slave with the wine again. That excellent Cyprian wine. Pollio's right: it's better than any Greek wine on the market.' Meanwhile Pollio's voice-and it's a nice voice to listen to, like a priest's at an evening sacrifice in summer-goes smoothly on and every now and then he asks humbly, *Is that all right, do you think?' And everyone says, thinking of the thrushes again, or perhaps of the little simnel cakes; 'Admirable. Admirable, Pollio.' Now and then he will pause and ask: 'Now which is the right word to use here? Shall I say that the returning envoys persuaded or excited this tribe to revolt? Or shall I say ............