The Statue in Hispania

It was a hot day. Caesar wiped his brow as he neared the crumbling walls of the temple.

Despite the heat, his eagerness got the better of him and he dashed up the cracked steps, nimbly avoiding the criss-crossing roots, and vaulted into the dark interior.

The air smelled stale. But an overpowering aura of a bygone era lingered, sending a thrill to his very core. And there was a statue that he had heard of long ago, waiting to be discovered.

Caesar caught his breath. Finally.

With a mild tingle creeping into his fingers, he took off his sandals and reveled in the coolness of the marble floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, statues within the ancient temple began to take shape.

He turned to his companion, a stoic Centurion. “Where is it?”

“Further ahead, to the right, Quaestor,” the Centurion replied, addressing Caesar according to his rank.

“Take me there,” Caesar said, peering eagerly into the darkness.

Caesar had first heard of the temple of Hercules from his childhood tutor, and now he was at the very place he had yearned to see for years. Inside the temple, his tutor had said, was a statue of a man.

Not a man—but a god.

The year was 69 BC and Julius Caesar was a Quaestor posted in the Roman province of Hispania.

As a minor official in the vast republican machinery, his position offered him neither recognition, nor—and this frustrated him—any opportunity of attaining glory.

Tired of settling property disputes and matters of taxes, especially tax evasion, Caesar had decided to take a day off from work. Accompanied by a Centurion who claimed to know the lie of the land, he had sailed to a nearby island.

Caesar and the Centurion walked along the hall in silence, their footsteps echoing in the darkness. At last, the Centurion reached a statue. Caesar’s eyes blazed.

There he was, face-to-face, with a god seated on his throne. Alexander, King of Macedon.

“Is it true what they say of him?” he said, his breathing ragged. “Did he conquer the world when he was but thirty?”

“From Greece to India,” the Centurion replied, his voice holding not a trace of fervor that Caesar felt. “There are more statues here. Let me show you.”

But Caesar was mesmerized by the steely gaze of Alexander’s statue as it pierced through the darkness and the barrier of time. The downward tilt of the jaw, the pinched lips curling into a hint of a smile made the statue look strangely alive.

Caesar shivered.

That smile…so cruel. Those eyes…they chide me? Does Alexander mock my paltry accomplishments?

He searched for an answer in the statue’s face, but none was forthcoming. Caesar’s frame shook with rage.

Maybe it was the stifling heat, maybe it was his disturbed frame of mind, he didn’t feel his body tremble. Caesar slumped to the ground, leaning against Alexander’s stony leg.

The rage he had felt but a moment ago ebbed, giving way to shame. His eyes welled up, and he buried his face in his hands.

My life…a waste. I, Julius Caesar, descendant of Venus herself. Will I ever inspire awe in men? When…when will I rise to his prominence?

He felt a prod on his shoulder. The Centurion sat hunched beside him.

“Quaestor?”

Caesar clutched Alexander’s leg, waiting for inspiration. But the very act of seeking support felt like a weakness.

He stifled a desire to weep, but not for long. Sobs racked his body, and he succumbed to his shame.

It was a while before Caesar calmed down. He wiped his tear-stained face.

“By the age of thirty, Alexander had conquered the whole world. Men hailed him as a god. And I? Older already, and still a low-rung official, a glorified book-keeper.” He spoke more to himself.

“Alexander had inherited a kingdom from his father. Whereas you…,” the Centurion mumbled. “Forgive me, Quaestor.”

Caesar cringed at the thought of his humble origins. But deep within, he knew that the Centurion spoke the truth.

Having grown up in the slums of Rome, he had climbed the political ladder by hard work and grit. There had been no one to mentor him, let alone inherit a kingdom from.

“Yes, Alexander did have an unfair advantage over me.” He smiled at the Centurion. “An accident of birth.”

I have more to learn… to live… to grow. Only then will I grasp my destiny.

A calm descended upon him as logic overcame his emotions. He stood and faced the statue for the last time, a victorious smile playing upon his lips in response to the sardonic Alexander.

The statue in Hispania did not intimidate Caesar anymore.

Despite his impatience to achieve greatness, Caesar had to fight many a war, both on battlefields and in the political arena, before his ambition bore fruit. His major contribution to Rome—the conquest of Gaul—began almost a decade after this incident.

He was forty-two then, and the campaign lasted for eight long years. That would ultimately catapult him to becoming the Dictator of Rome, the first man in the mightiest civilization of his time.

Had Caesar succumbed to that moment of insecurity in Hispania and chosen a lesser path, his name would have been forever lost in obscurity.

Millions of lives in ancient Rome would have taken a different course, historians would have waxed lyrical of other men, and this story that you are reading would not have been inked.

Thanks for reading & have a great day,

A. David Singh