Meanwhile troublous times seemed in store for Cæsar. Since the death of Julia everything seemed to have gone awry. The ruin of Crassus, the disappearance of Clodius, the revolt of Vercingetorix, the doubtful attitude of Pompey, the new war which had broken out in Gaul in 51, had all gravely compromised his reputation. Whereas, but a few years before, every success gained by the Republic had been put down to his credit, most people now inclined to hold him responsible for every conceivable difficulty: for the dangers which seemed to threaten in the East, for the interminable operations in Gaul, for the increasing corruption at home and the imminent break-up of the whole fabric of the State. And now, to crown all, Pompey's open declaration at the sitting of the 30th of September had put in the clearest light the growing likelihood of a rupture between him and his ally. To speak abusively or contemptuously of Cæsar was now the fashion of the day, impartially imposed, with all the tyranny of a social convention, upon landlords and capitalists and all the gilded youth of the Capital. Cato did not mind saying openly that he would like to bring him into court and condemn him to exile as soon as his command came to an end. Many who had been his admirers now turned against him, and even Atticus, always on the safe side, demanded the repayment of the fifty talents which he had lent Cæsar before his Consulship. It was little enough that he could set against these manifold influences—the precarious support of the small contractors to whom he had given, and was still giving, so much employment, and the admiring devotion of the poorer classes, the artisans and freedmen, who could not forgive the death of their old patron Clodius.