Augustus

by Allan Massie

  You really make me sick. As I say, divorce me if you like. I would rather be divorced than stomach this.

  You don't even have Julia's interests at heart, however you fawn and slobber over her. If you did, you would see that she needs a strong husband who can control her and see that she behaves herself, not that peacocking boy. Tiberius might manage her, but I wouldn't wish her on any son of mine.

  I suppose you've already written to Octavia about this, and I suppose she's over the moon. Well, she'll learn differently. I won't have it. I swear it.

  It is a pity that my original letter and my replies have disappeared. (They were burned in a fire in my tent, I seem to recall.) I wonder if it was the proposal itself, or more my manner of broaching it which aroused such anger. And what could I have said in my reply to Livia to produce such an answer as this?

  So: you refuse to divorce me. Typical.

  You pay no heed to my advice. You don't even bother to consult me in advance, just write saying what is your intention.

  You really have a very odd idea of marriage. Let me tell you, patiently and calmly, how I understand that institution. Since you choose to disregard my wish for a divorce, you would do well to listen. Otherwise I shall in some way contrive to leave you, bring this comedy to an end.

  We are Romans, not slimy and loathsome Orientals. A wife and mother has always had an important, respected and recognized influence in the family. Legally, the husband is sovereign, and I cannot compel you to follow my advice. Nevertheless it has been our tradition that the wife has great influence in family affairs. Marriage is a partnership between equals, and, though I am of course better-born than you, I have never claimed to be more than your equal. Understand that. I ask for nothing extraordinary, merely what is my due: that you should seek my advice, ponder it well, and when it is good (as I am bold to say you will usually find it) be not too proud to act upon it. That is how I behave towards you.

  I would never act in any important matter without laying it first before you. I have never lied to you or tried to deceive you. And this is how it should be between man and wife. But it is not, I have sadly come to realize, your way. You prefer to keep things close and secret, to fold them to your breast while your plans mature, and then spring them on me as if they were beyond the point of argument or discussion. You are always asking me to accept your proposals as if they were already accomplished facts. Well, your secretiveness and love of deceit disgust me. They pain me too. It is like a thorn-bush growing round my heart or like the poisonous ivy which attaches itself to stone-work and insidiously destroys it. I cannot live without openness and candour, but you seem capable of neither. You talk of loving me, oh very easily, but since you don't trust me, I cannot value the love you profess. Indeed, the more your conduct contradicts your words, the more I dislike and despise you.

  There: do you understand what I am saying? I tell you, you make a mockery of marriage.

  Now, let me return specifically to this absurd and dangerous marriage you propose. I have told you, you are besotted with Marcellus, and greatly overvalue him. You will find no one who does not agree with me. I know you think I am jealous of the boy, but that is your own guilt trying to excuse yourself.

  I judge him fairly, as most of those who know him judge also. You are infatuated, and your judgement, which is sound and acute when your emotions are not involved, blinds you to his lightness of character and waywardness of judgement. Moreover, you flatter him the whole time, and in doing so do liim no service. I'll go further. Because you love him as a youth, you are making it even more difficult for riim to become a man.

  There: do you understand that?

  Second, your infatuation is making a fool of you. There are all sorts of ugly rumours about your relationship with Marcellus, just as there were about you and Julius Caesar. This time of course your role is reversed, but nobody thinks better of you for being the seducer (as you are thought to be) rather than the seduced. Very few people in these degenerate days think ill of a man for having Greek morals and loving boys, but nobody thinks well of such a man either. You protest that your love for Marcellus is pure. I don't know; I have no reason to believe you, but it may be. Only, it doesn't look like it, and very few people, if any, believe that it is. I am told that stories about your infatuation are staple dinner-party jokes. Can't you see that you are making yourself absurd? Can't you see that, no matter what the truth of the relationship is, it has been too close, and exclusive, to be good for you, for Marcellus, or for your reputation? It is no good saying that, by arranging for the boy to marry your daughter, you will silence the slander. You will only in fact encourage it to break forth more vilely.

  There: do you understand that?

  Third, by the favouritism you show Marcellus, to put it no worse, you are unjust to Tiberius, and by extension to Drusus too. When you married me, you assumed responsibility for my sons, though you have never adopted them, as you might have done. You are not only unjust to Tiberius in this particular, in that you show your preference so obviously for your nephew over your stepson, but you are generally unjust to him, in that you consistently undervalue riim. I am ready to admit that Marcellus has a charm which Tiberius lacks. A man with your experience of the world shouldn't however submit to charm as you do. If you look closely at Marcellus and Tiberius, you will see that my son has all the virtues which really matter in the world and which are absent in your pretty nephew. These virtues are: intelligence, fortitude, industriousness, truthfulness, regularity of conduct, balance and clear-sightedness. Marcellus exaggerates, Tiberius does not. Marcellus gives up when things become difficult; Tiberius perseveres; Marcellus is rash, Tiberius cautious; Marcellus is self-centred, Tiberius has a sense of duty which encourages him to put self aside. How can I not believe you are blinded by love when I see you ignore the true character of the boys and value what is meretricious rather than what is solid?

  I have one thing to confess. I have done Octavia an injustice. I thought she had connived at what you propose and was certain she would approve it. She doesn't. When she came to see me yesterday, I was at first angry and ready to deploy arguments against the marriage. Imagine my surprise when she said straight out that she hoped I was going to be able to put a stop to it. She said she had written to you telling you so, and I admired her for it. Her reasons are naturally slightly different from mine, or at least they are graded differently, for we found in conversation that we were in very general agreement. Naturally, however, she speaks as a mother; very properly it is her maternal duty which is uppermost in her mind; and she is sure, as she has told you, that Marcellus and Julia are unsuited, precisely because they resemble each other too closely. The marriage would be bad for both of them, because it would encourage whatever is weak in them.

  I know you think I am unjust to Julia, and it may be that your own attitude to Tiberius is provoked by this belief. But I am not unjust. I judge her fairly. I admit we are not temperamentally attuned, but I have always tried to do my duty to her. I recognize and am prepared to admire her beauty, charm and wit, but I deplore and have tried to correct her selfishness and levity of character. You have impeded and undermined my efforts, never willing to recognize that I have the girl's best interests at heart.

  You always think you know best, of course, but even you must surely pause to reconsider when you realize that your sister and your wife are united in opposition.

  I trust you have not spoken to Marcellus himself about this, and I ask you not to write to Julia. But probably you won't have. It would be just like you to present them with a gift of marriage out of your hat. I'm not so sure by the way that your precious Julia would be delighted by your scheme. She won't, I rather fancy, welcome a husband as likely to distract attention from her as Marcellus.

  But, if you are wise, that won't come to the point of proof!

  You say, you could never contemplate divorcing me. Very well, then, I must submit. But I warn you, if you want me to continue to behave like a wife wh
en you return to Rome, you must treat me as a wife, as the partner you profess to love, and not like a rival politician from whom you conceal everything till it's on the point of accomplishment and so hope to outwit. Otherwise I shall deny you my bed again, and you know perfectly well that I shall keep my word. One thing I will say for you; you are not the sort of man to force yourself on me against my will. . .

  Of course, that was precisely what Agrippa had recommended me to do. Plancus also had had the impudence to say to me after dinner one night when he was well sunk in a bottle and so beyond gauging his impudence, 'They tell me, Caesar, Livia is putting on airs, in the way women sometimes do. Well, if you want any help, you know I'm willing to supply you with the most desirable of substitute bedmates - I still have Phrygian connections, and you must know how lovely and lubricious Phrygian girls are -but if you take an old campaigner's advice - one who has triumphed in the lists of Venus - you won't stand for that sort of nonsense. Women owe us their bodies in payment for the protection and luxuries we grant them. Everyone knows that, and our ancestors were accustomed to act on the knowledge.' I let it pass of course; the insults of drunk men are not worth bothering about.

  My dear Livia, she flew up in anger quicker than boiled asparagus. My first reaction was to write and tell her not to be a beetroot, but I thought better of it. Instead, as far as I can remember, I replied in mollifying tones. It didn't alter my mind; Marcellus should indeed marry Julia.

  How, you may ask, did I bring it off? It is hard to give an exact and satisfactory answer. I dropped the matter for a few months without ever telling either Livia or my sister that I had abandoned my intention. Then, from Spain, where we had gone to suppress a troublesome rising of the hill-tribes, I wrote to Livia praising Tiberius' development. 'I have no doubt,' I recall writing, 'that he is going to be a great servant of Rome. He shows a willingness to master detail which is wholly commendable, and I am pleased to tell you that his admirable example is shaming Marcellus into giving more attention to things which are necessary but which do not immediately appeal to him.' Then, a few weeks later, I praised Tiberius again, and into the same letter, slipped a casual reference to the prospects of Marcellus' marrying Julia. 'Of course,' I added, 'in view of the opinions you have expressed, there can be no question of this going forward till it has all been fully discussed. For my sake I hope you can reconcile yourself to the match, but I am not prepared to disrupt the harmony of the family by pushing forward any measure against your wishes.'

  I was content. I had planted the seed. It was pertinacious as I am myself, and would grow. Meanwhile, what I had said was true. Marcellus was indeed maturing. The youth who would return to Rome was not the sometimes giddy and careless boy who had left. For reasons of tact I attributed the change to Tiberius' influence, but that was nonsense of course. It was I myself who moulded Marcellus, and taught him that nothing worthwhile in this world can be obtained without application.

  That year 1 spent in Spain had its bitter moments. The health of the Empire depended on its financial stability. (This is the sort of fact which the old Republicans, who bled the provinces, disdained to recognize.) Much of my time in Gaul had been spent in adjusting the system of taxation; in Spain I was engaged in safeguarding the silver mines. My expedition against the Alpine Salassi was aimed at controlling the gold production of their mountain valleys. But the key to the Empire's financial health lay in Egypt, land of endless resources. Conscious of its importance, I had reserved Egypt under my own authority, and appointed an old friend, Cornelius Gallus, as Prefect. I had every reason to trust Gallus, for he was a man of rare intelligence who had fought beside me for many years and whom I had always found resourceful and reliable. He was a friend of Virgil's too and I knew no better recommendation.

  Yet one can never be sure how men will respond to changed circumstances. Under my eye, Gallus' prudence curbed his fecund imagination. Given a command which he interpreted as offering more independence than was actually the case, a reversal of nature occurred. Now his imagination got the upper hand of prudence. Perhaps that is a faulty interpretation. It may rather be that nature asserted itself, that the true Gallus emerged freed, as he must have thought, from the trammels of dependence. He began to behave like a proconsul of the old Republic, embarking on a war against the Sabeans. He wrote glowingly to me (after his expedition had started) that he would bring back a great treasure of gems, gold and spices from the remote heart of Arabia. His men suffered agonies of thirst in a long desert march, and he was fortunate to extricate them without disaster; without treasure either. I wrote urging him to be more circumspect. He paid no heed to my letter, for, without even acknowledging it, he marched south into Ethiopia, announcing that he would explore the springs of the Nile. Agrippa wrote assuring me that Gallus had gone off his head, and some senator - I forget which - laid a formal accusation against him. I was alarmed, and dismissed him, forbidding him however, for his own safety which I could not guarantee against the Senate's wrath, to come to Italy . . . The Senate, in my absence, proclaimed his banishment and confiscated his estates. Gallus, hearing this, did not wait for my response, but killed himself. I had wished no such fate on him. How could I? Whatever he had done, he had not forfeited my affection. I wept when I heard the news; was I the only man whose frown was followed by death? Who could not set a limit to the consequences of my displeasure with my friends?

  Gallus had erected statues in his own honour, and had boastful inscriptions carved on the pyramids of Egypt. He had set up a high column recording that he had advanced with his army beyond the cataracts of the Nile where neither the Roman people nor the Kings of Egypt had previously despatched an army. He said nothing of the pointlessness and expense of this expedition. The cursed corruption of Egypt, distorting reality, had perhaps scattered his wits. Thereafter I resolved that that frightful but necessary country must remain under my direct authority.

  Perhaps it was my evident grief over Gallus that touched Livia's heart. At any rate, suddenly, to my great joy, she withdrew her opposition to the marriage of Marcellus and Julia. That was how it seemed to me at the time. There were alas darker reasons.

  How deceptive is one's progress through life. It is as if we travelled on a footpath cut through a gloomy forest. Because we remain on the path and are able to advance, we feel in control of our destiny. But the surrounding forest remains unknown and hostile, and we are ignorant of what dangers lurk only a few feet from the path.

  THREE

  I fell ill in Spain in the spring of 24, a fever that would not leave me. I had to hand over command of the army there to my legates, C. Antistius Vetus and P. Carisius, sound men who, following my plan of campaign, subdued the rebellious tribes. I therefore ordered the door of the temple of Janus to be closed, in order to show to the city what I had achieved for Rome, and to persuade my enemies of the unrivalled blessings of peace. Meanwhile I took the waters of the Pyrenaean mountains, and began to write a fragment of autobiography, dedicated to Agrippa and Maecenas. It did not proceed far but I was to draw on it later for that book which I wrote for the instruction, and, as I hoped, delight of my sons Gaius and Lucius.

  To write their names even pains me. How shall I deal with their lives? Better perhaps to abandon these last mutterings this side of the tomb. Yet I have a duty to the Gods, to Livia, to the shade of Virgil, and finally to my own reputation, to persevere.

  A letter has just come from Tiberius assuring me that all is quiet on the Rhine. Old age would be insupportable but for him. If he were to die, in whom could I rest my trust?

  Trust . . . the word oppresses me. Owls call hunting from the Aventine; the river stench rises to my nostrils. Slaves, seeing my grey countenance and sour look, slink through the palace in whey-faced fear - as if I would vent my misery and displeasure on them. That I have lived to this! Oh, all may be quiet on the Rhine, I am sure it is, Tiberius would not lie for my comfort, though he knows well how little comfort I have now, in anything ... oh Varus, give me back
my legions! I have sent to Gaul to seek out the little girl who ran by her father's side. I shall entrust her, and her mother, if she lives, to Livia.

  Is it some kind of judgement that the Gods have deserted me in old age? I spent sixty years the favourite of Fortune, to be deprived of Fortune in my last days.

  Trust ... life is a hollow gourd without it, trust in family, trust in friends, trust in one's own integrity and the integrity of others . . . trust that one's benevolence will be recognized. Such trust is a mockery; it mocks him who trusts and what he trusts in. It denies the sharp appetites of man.

  I returned to Rome, weary and still fevered - a frightful journey - in the autumn of that year. I selected Terentius Varro Murena to be my colleague in the consulship. His sister Terentia was Maecenas' wife and he himself had done well as commander of the legions I had sent against the Salassi. Would I however have made him consul if Terentia had not asked me to do so? She had liquid brown eyes and hair the colour of beech-nuts, and when I called to see Maecenas she was desperate. Though we hardly knew each other she told me of her unhappiness. She had not known of her husband's tastes when the marriage was arranged; for the first year she had not believed they could really be exclusive. As she told me this her eyes brimmed with tears. She lay back on the couch and looked at me, her breasts heaving. Her gown was slit up the right side and she let it fall away to reveal the long rounded line of delicious thigh. Everything in her attitude cried out to me, 'Come and rape me, don't you see I shall die of frustration if you don't?' I smiled to her and she crossed the room and sat on my lap and thrust her tongue into my mouth. She was brown and warm and eager and uncomplicated. I felt the cruelty of what we impose on women and was gentle with her. When all was over, and, in her starved condition, our first love-making was as brief as a dog's, she sobbed in relief.