Tiberius i-2

by Allan Massie

  Nevertheless I also recognise that it is impossible for any man to overcome by prayers and sacrifice what is fixed from the beginning and to alter it to his taste or advantage; what has been assigned to us will happen without praying for it; what is not fated will not occur, pray as we may.

  Is it possible to reconcile these two beliefs? This is a question I have frequently heard debated by philosophers, and though I have found much of profound interest in the debates — and have indeed, on occasion, ventured to offer contributions of my own, which, I am happy to say, have not been ill-received — I confess that the matters appear to me fundamentally incompatible. The fact is that in this shadowy life, we are incapable of receiving or understanding the full truth about the nature of things in the same way as we are unable to know our own natures thoroughly. What is clear is that on the one hand everyone wishes to know his fortune, while on the other we derive profound satisfaction from performing harmonious and time-hallowed actions with the utmost punctiliousness. We all have a desire, an innate desire, to do what is right, and at the same time we are alert for signs which will assure us as to the future. When I first commanded an army, and was marching through Macedonia on my way to Syria, the altars consecrated by the victorious Caesareans at Philippi burst spontaneously into flames; was this not a sign that my fortune would be glorious?

  That thought perplexes me still, for I have abandoned ambition. Is it possible, I wonder, that the gods remain ambitious for me? Once at Padua, for instance, I visited Geryon's oracle: I was advised to throw golden dice into the fountain of Aponus, and, in fact, made the highest possible cast. Then, the day after I arrived in Rhodes, an eagle — a bird never before seen on this island — alighted on the roof of my house, remaining there seven nights. Was its arrival witness of a magnificent future, or did its departure suggest that glory had deserted me?

  Such questionings are foolish since only experience proves or disproves signs of this nature. Yet, on sleepless nights, I cannot help brooding on them.

  I brood on other matters too: on my few years of happiness for instance, which lasted from the date of Agrippa's marriage to Julia to the hour of my father-in-law's death. I felt secure then, my star in the ascendant. Vipsania grew ever dearer to me, we conversed about everything. I saw in the alliance of Augustus and Agrippa, who had been joined with my stepfather in the tribunician power, so that authority in the state was shared between them, a guarantee for the continuing peace and prosperity of Rome, a guarantee strengthened still more by Augustus' love for his grandchildren, Agrippa and Julia's sons and daughters. My own career blossomed. Together with my beloved brother Drusus, I pushed the frontier of the empire north of the Alps: forty-six tribes submitted to the rule of Rome. Augustus erected a trophy commemorating our achievement. In these happy years my son Drusus was born.

  Call no man happy till he is dead. The gods are jealous of our felicity. While I was in winter quarters on the Danube I received an anguished letter from my wife. She told me her father had died in his villa in Campania. He had been preparing to join the armies; it had been my pride and concern to see that they were in a state of readiness which he would approve. Vipsania had been with him when he passed into the shades. "He spoke of you near the end," she said. " 'Tiberius,' he said, 'will continue my work. He is a rock'… so you see, my dear, that my father respected you as much as I love you, my dear husband…"

  I wept when I read those words; I am near to tears now as I remember them.

  Immersed in an arduous campaign, I had little time to appreciate the personal significance of Agrippa's death. Not even a letter from Vipsania some two months later alarmed me. "Everyone is worried about Julia," she wrote. "It is generally agreed that she must have a husband — and little Gaius and Lucius a father — but it is very difficult to think of anyone who might be suitable. Who can, after all, replace my father? Yet dear Julia's nature is such that she cannot remain single. Your mother is very anxious."

  I returned to Rome at the end of the campaigning season, though not before I had ensured that my men were well established in their winter quarters, and that sufficient stores had been accumulated to provision them throughout those months when transport is often difficult in the frontier regions. I had also laid down a training programme, for nothing is so demoralising for soldiers as idleness, and I had instructed my staff-officers to prepare for the next summer's campaign. I did not think of Agrippa while doing all this, but it was he who had taught me that nine-tenths of the science of war rests in adequate preparation. Nor did I give any thought to the problem Vipsania had adumbrated. Why should I have? It was no concern of mine.

  Rain was falling heavily as I came within sight of the city, and the steep road that leads from the Forum to the Palatine was awash with running water. It was late afternoon and the wind blew in my face. I made my way to my mother's house, for Vipsania and our son were still lodged in our villa on the coast. I knelt before Livia and she laid her fingers on my forehead. I rose and we embraced. We exchanged the awkward courtesies of reunion.

  "The Princeps is pleased with your achievement, my son." "Good. He should be. It has been a difficult summer."

  "You know," she said, "that he finds it difficult to converse with you…"

  "My genius rebukes him?"

  "Don't scoff. If you want to know, it's your bitter humour that he finds disconcerting. He likes…"

  "Yes, I know, he likes everything to be comfortable."

  "There's no need to be disrespectful. It's been a difficult summer here too. Agrippa's death…"

  There had been a time, as I knew, when my mother had despised Agrippa. For all her subtle intelligence, she was not altogether free of the prejudices of her class. But she had come to understand his value. They had learned to work together, aware that they pursued the same end: the creation of my stepfather's legend. Moreover, they had understood that while each of them was in important respects far superior to Augustus, and the pair together generally a match for him, nevertheless Augustus emerged, in some fashion which neither could have accounted for, as their master. There are always many observers who put it about that Livia controlled her husband, and she was not unhappy to have this believed, even while she strove to magnify his reputation. Yet she knew that in the last resort, it was not the case. Augustus kept within him a dour capacity for domination. Ultimately he was stubborn, inflexible, adamant; yes, even he, the great politician who twisted and compromised and cajoled and accommodated, yet contrived to impress his will on events. It has always been the paradox of their loving and quarrelsome marriage: that each feared the other. But, despite appearances, Augustus has always been the stronger.

  Livia would not talk that evening of Agrippa's death and of its consequences for the state, and I sensed something was wrong, for she had always been eager to engage in political speculation.

  When I met Augustus the next morning, he praised me, and was embarrassed to praise me. I declared my intention of hurrying to my wife and child, and he begged me to delay a few days in Rome. There were matters that had to be discussed when he could spare the hours from the myriad tasks of unavoidable administration, and he wished me to hold myself in readiness. I wrote to Vipsania explaining the situation and apologising for my tardiness. I told her I longed to hold her in my arms. Those were my exact words, I know, though I have no copy of that letter.

  It was at the baths a few days later that Iullus Antonius accosted me. I have not mentioned Iullus Antonius hitherto in these scraps of memory, and he deserves a paragraph to himself, as I approach the worst moments of my life.

  I had known him since I was a child — indeed we had done lessons together. He was, as his name indicates, the son of Mark Antony, by his first marriage to Fulvia, who had so terrified my own poor father in the long months of the dreadful siege of Perugia. When Antony married Augustus' sister Octavia, that noble and generous woman assumed responsibility for his children by his first marriage, and she continued to care for them even after
he deserted her for Cleopatra. There were four, two of whom I came to know well: Iullus and his sister Antonia, who was now married to my brother Drusus. I have always had a warm affection for Antonia, but I never cared for Iullus. Despite my dislike, I felt some sympathy for him. He had been brought up with us, but Augustus never trusted him: he was always mindful of his heredity, and he knew that many of Antony's old adherents, and their connections, regarded Iullus as the natural leader of their party. He therefore permitted him civil office, but declined to allow him any military experience. In an attempt to bind him to the family's interests, he had commanded Iullus to marry Octavia's daughter by her first marriage, Marcella, when she was divorced by Agrippa in order that my father-in-law might marry Julia. No doubt Augustus was wise: Iullus much resembled his father in appearance and in his intemperate character. He was indeed a little drunk when he approached me that afternoon at the baths; he was often a little drunk by that time of day…

  "So the great general has returned," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder. I brushed it off; I have always detested such manifestations of male camaraderie — all the more so when I know them to be insincere.

  "I was surprised that you didn't attend your father-in-law's funeral."

  "Marcus Agrippa would have understood my absence." "And you imply I cannot, because of my ignorance of military affairs. Well, that's not my fault. I think the worse of myself for not being a soldier, and" — he raised his voice — "the worse of the man who has deprived me of that experience, which is properly speaking my birthright."

  He stretched himself on the bench beside me and called for a slave to massage him. He ran his hands over his tight curly hair and sighed as the boy's hands worked over his flesh. He must have been almost thirty, but there was still something boyish about his own appearance. His thighs had the smoothness of the athlete who has never sat a horse on campaign in foul climates, and the skin on his face was soft, as a man's is when he is never exposed to wind and rain. The boy worked oil into his legs and I watched his pleasure increase. Then he flopped over on to his belly, inclined his head towards me, and told the boy to go and fetch wine.

  "I have been wanting to speak to you," he said. "Now's as good a time as any. We were friends as children, weren't we? I always admired the way you handled my dear late brother-in-law Marcellus. I could see you thought him as great a ninny as I did. But, unlike me, you were clever enough not to let everyone realise this, for you knew how your stepfather doted on him. I couldn't do that, but I admired your… reserve, shall we say…?"

  I didn't reply. Where there's nothing useful to be said, it is best to remain silent. I may have grunted, for I was interested to see how far he would reveal himself, and it is always foolish to choke off confidences at an early stage, even if the wise man realises that in certain circumstances to receive a confidence may be almost as dangerous as to impart one. These things have to be balanced.

  "And then I was married off to his sister, for what that's worth. You did better in that line, though I didn't realise it at the time. There was something to be said for being Agrippa's son-in-law. But there might be more to be said for being his successor again…"

  "And the father of his sons?" I prompted.

  The boy came back with wine. Iullus told him to hand me a cup too. It was sweet and resinous. Iullus rose to his feet, hugging his cup to his breast.

  "I have ambitions in that direction," he said. "Julia and I have always been chums… if you put in a word for me, I'll not forget it.."

  He lay down again, called on the curly-headed boy to resume his massage. He sighed with pleasure. I watched his flesh move as the boy's fingers eased themselves to and fro. I thought of his father dying of stupid ambition in the Egyptian sands. I thought of mine fondling the wine-flask on the terrace of his Alban villa while the tears coursed down his fat cheeks. Then I turned on my front, and longed for Vipsania, and dreamed of my own son's future…

  Augustus was at his most affable when I met him in the next weeks. He treated me to magisterial surveys of the political situation in Rome. I marvelled, as I always did, at his acute evaluation of the political influence exerted by families, individuals and alliances. I admired the judgment with which he balanced this faction against that, showing me how he would sweeten this man's ambition with office or the promotion of some dependant, stifle that man's hopes by the timely detachment of some supporter, how he would keep some dangling in greedy expectation, and drench others with hints of disloyalty and unreliability. I was both entranced and disgusted, for I realised that he used men as counters and that his relish in doing so had in it something of the cruelty of a child.

  Then he talked of Agrippa with a tenderness that was affecting. "The best of friends" he called him. "When we were young," he said, "people used to laugh at his accent, and I remember Mark Antony telling me that people took my fondness for Agrippa as a sign that I was myself second-rate. He laughed as he said that, but Antony learned himself how wrong that judgment was. We would never have triumphed but for Agrippa. I loved him, you know. He never doubted that our improbable adventure would end happily. Of course he was deficient in imagination, but that gave me confidence too. And now he is gone. It's like having my leg or my right arm cut off. But our life goes on, that's the terrible thing."

  I couldn't imagine Augustus ever thinking that a terrible thing. I have never known a man who so revelled in existence, or one who took such pleasure in unravelling problems…

  "And we who are left," he said, "have to fill the vacancy he has left behind. I'm happy with the condition of the armies, thanks to you and to our dear Drusus, I know everything there is in safe hands. Of course I don't expect either of you to replace Agrippa in the management of the Republic, that's a task I shall have to shoulder alone, it would be putting far too much weight on your young, if capable, shoulders. But there's our darling Julia. Of course she's overcome with a very proper grief now but when that subsides, well, it'll be a matter of finding her a husband. Who shall we choose? And then there are the boys, my two darlings Gaius and Lucius. Whoever marries Julia must be a man I trust absolutely, you know, for he will have to act as their guardian too. Naturally, as long as I am spared, I will secure their interests, but I'm not immortal, and my health has never been good. I nearly died ten years ago, you remember, and my doctor says he couldn't call me a good life. I take care of myself of course, exercise, and frugality in eating and drinking, but who knows when the gods will call me? So, you see, my dear Tiberius, the question is worrying. It keeps me awake at nights, and that's not good for me. Your dear mother shares my worries, that's a great comfort, but even she can't think of an ideal solution. We can neither of us think of any solution which won't hurt somebody. That's the shame of it. I hate hurting people I am fond of, you know, and yet I don't see how it can be done otherwise. Have you any suggestions, dear boy?"

  Was I expected to answer? I was a blind fool. I did not see the way his thoughts were tending. But even if I had, I do not see how I could have been other than impotent. Augustus has inserted himself into the state in such a manner that his will is always pregnant of the future.

  I was kept dangling in Rome. When I announced my intention of leaving the city to join Vipsania, urgent reasons for postponement were produced. Then I was invited to supper by Maecenas. I had always disliked and distrusted my stepfather's Etruscan counsellor; his effeminacy disgusted me, and I could not forget that Agrippa had described him to me as being as "wily as a Spanish banker and vicious as a Corinthian brothel-keeper". My instinct was to refuse the invitation, but the slave who brought it to me coughed to attract my attention and said:

  "My master ordered me to add in speech what he chose not to commit in writing: that your future happiness depends on your acceptance. He said you would not immediately believe this, but commanded me to assure you that he has only your best interests at heart, and to say also that the matter concerns your wife."

  The great house on the Esquiline was a mix
ture of gross luxury and dirt. There was furniture of the utmost extravagance and rich wall-paintings and vases, and a profusion of flowers, but a small dog was lifting its leg against a carved ivory couch as I entered. No one reproved it, and the number of little dogs and cats that swarmed over the palace suggested to me that the action was common. The air was oversweet and perfumed, as if to mask the stench of urine. I knew Maecenas to be in poor health himself. He had retired, as I believed, from public life. His wife Terentia had long abandoned him, and he cohabited with the actor Bathyllus whose behaviour even on the public stage had become a byword for indecency. Maecenas himself had lost whatever reputation he had possessed, and few people mentioned his name without a snigger or an expression of disgust; yet I knew that Augustus still consulted him, and even valued his advice above all others; except my late father-in-law's.

  I was ushered into a little dining-room. The table was already spread and Maecenas, in an improbable gown of gold and purple silks, reclined on a couch. He was gazing at a blond boy, who posed, nude, on a stool; his right ankle rested on his left knee and his face was concealed as he leaned forward to examine the sole of his raised foot. An artist across the room was sketching the boy.

  Maecenas neither rose when I entered, nor took his eyes from the boy. Instead he stretched out his long bony hand and squeezed the boy's leg. Understanding this to be a command, the boy rose, and, without a backward glance, strolled from the room, trailing a tunic behind him. The artist collected his materials and slipped away. We were left alone, and Maecenas rose and extended both hands in a gesture of greeting. His face was drawn and wasted by disease, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and seemed to come from a distance. During the meal he conversed merely of trivialities and plied me with Falernian wine. He ate only some smoked fish and a peach himself. Then he dismissed the slaves.

  "I rarely entertain now," he said. "My health does not permit it. You see before you, dear boy, the wreck of a man who has all but exhausted pleasure."