He wanted to make a good impression on the man, so decided not to linger on his whims. Some people tended to find him too eccentric. He cut him short: “There’s always something to gain by helping other people. They then remember you,” was all he said.
“Bah! You put a lot of faith in other people’s gratitude. You must be deluded. When someone takes advantage of you, you’ve lost them. So it’s not worth it,” the man said disdainfully, but in a way that was sufficiently light hearted to avoid being offensive.
“I like to think that it’s not like that,” Maecenas replied. “And so far it’s worked out well for me. I’ve never had reason to regret any of my choices.”
“Then you should help him,” Plotius said. “He’s much better than me, I can assure you. That’s why I wanted to show him my work.”
“Really?” Maecenas looked at the man with even more interest. “I’d like to read something of yours… soldier. What’s your name?”
“First of all, I’m not a soldier but an optio. My name is Quintus Horatius Flaccus, and I’ve no intention of showing you anything,” the man replied, and this time he seemed annoyed.
At this point, Maecenas’s interest in the man grew exponentially. “And why not?” he asked in an almost desperate tone, fearful of losing the only excuse he had for seeing him again. “When our armies march together – and I’m sure that will be soon – we’ll have many chances to chat and become friends, in the name of our common passion for poetry.”
“Simply, because I’m not interested,” the sergeant replied. “And because I would never seek the approval of a man who serves the son of a tyrant. If our armies march together, they’ll do it without me. I have no intention of fighting the ‘liberators’: in my opinion, they should be rewarded, not punished.”
Plotius put a hand on Horace’s forearm, trying to encourage him to be less cutting.
“I doubt the other soldiers share your opinions,” replied Maecenas, trying to hide his dismay: Horatius no longer seemed like someone he could establish a relationship with. Of any kind.
The man made a dismissive gesture. “You know how much I care. My misfortune was to have been enlisted in a legion that finished up in Antony’s hands. I would much rather be in the East with Cassius and Marcus Brutus. On the other hand, I studied in Athens, and with the times being what they are, I’d happily go back there.”
“Maybe you will go back there. We’ll be going to those parts when we’ve sorted out all the institutional issues.”
“If that ever happens, I’ll be in the ranks of the liberators. And the only way you can help me, Tribune, is to offer me your chest in battle so that I can run you through, along with everyone else who’s still fighting in the name of the tyrant.”
“Don’t mind him, Tribune. He’s always like this. He likes to make himself hateful, but he’s not a bad person, I assure you,” Plotius hastened to put in, fearful that the senior officer might take against them.
But Maecenas took no notice. He turned and joined the officer who had been escorting him. Whatever criticism and insults he received usually had no effect upon him at all: he didn’t care what others said about him – for the most part they were people of less intelligence, wealth, knowledge and capacity for enjoying life. But this time, the man had hurt him. There was something about that Horatius that troubled him and made him lose control of the game – the opposite to what happened with everyone else.
More than anything else he wanted to get to the heart of the man’s personality and his literary works, and he made a mental note to approach him a second time.
When the two armies had marched together.
VII
Watching the rising sun lose its reddish hue and begin to shine with its usual yellow light on the isle whose soil he was about to tread for the second time, Octavian felt as though a good day was dawning. He was sure that Antony and Lepidus would be less intransigent now that they had had a chance to gauge the mood of the soldiers: all he’d have to do would be to soften his position slightly, so they wouldn’t think they’d lose face if they agreed with him. He scrutinised their faces as they approached the isle and felt a surge of satisfaction – the expressions he saw there were far less determined than those of the day before, when they’d come convinced that they would walk all over Rome’s consul simply because he was half their age. He read doubts and misgivings on their faces, even discomfort, and this time they were undoubtedly coming to the meeting with respect for him, rather than disdain.
Nevertheless, they shook hands warily, in heavy silence, each studying the others to try and read their thoughts. There was more tension in the atmosphere than the day before, and the bodyguards kept their hands firmly upon the hilts of their sheathed swords. Octavian sat down, and the other two followed suit. He waited: he could afford to wait for them to speak. So far, the only thing they’d decided was to create a five-year triumvirate, to have the Senate ratify it by law, and to assign to this new institutional creation the responsibility for nominating magistrates. The rest was still to discuss.
After many minutes of tense, embarrassed silence, Lepidus broke the ice. It was obvious that he had been given the role of Antony’s legate in every sense, including that of opening the way for him.
“We had some trouble with the soldiers last night and this morning before dawn…” he was forced to admit.
Excellent start.
“Really? I didn’t,” Octavian said, trying to curb the sarcastic smile forming on his lips.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” responded a still calm Lepidus, “since it was you who incited them.”
“Me? How can you say such a thing?” he replied, assuming the most innocent air in the world, which, with his youthful face, he could do particularly well.
Antony began to look elsewhere. Lepidus replied: “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Now, more than ever, the soldiers want you in the war against the self-styled ‘liberators’. You’ve bought them.”
Octavian feigned amazement. “Are you joking? Everybody knows, and has for some time, that my priority is justice against those murderers. Those who loved Caesar have always wanted to avenge him under the command of his son and heir,” he pointed out. “And I’ve never hidden the fact that I would like to reward them adequately for their efforts, just as my father promised to do at the end of the Parthian war. Even if there’s a civil war, they should still be paid, on top of any booty – which, especially as we’re not going off to conquer a foreign country, there might not even be…”
“But you’ve made a host of promises that you’ll never be able to keep.” Lepidus raised his voice, but only slightly: unlike Antony, he was a man who knew how to keep his calm. “You’ve offered veterans plots of land in settlements near major Italian cities, where it’s no longer possible to appropriate anything! You’ve even proposed organising whoever remains in service into a permanent state army! I’ve heard talk of twenty year periods of service, of wages, of permanent border stations, and of Praetorian cohorts in Rome and surrounding areas with all due benefits! You’re buying them, and you’ve blatantly lied, exploiting their ignorance of the State’s accounts. Or maybe you yourself don’t know anything about them: what money were you planning to use to pay for a permanent army?”
Octavian kept his calm. “We’ll find the money. It will mean the rich pay more: a standing army benefits everybody, it will prevent invasions such as the Cimbri and Teuton offensives of half a century ago and ensure order in the provinces. And given all the turmoil we’ve seen in Rome over the past few decades, a few soldiers there would be helpful for keeping order. It’ll mean we’ll have to increase taxes, but we’ll improve services as well, so the people will understand they’re paying for something useful, not just throwing their money away. And don’t forget that a standing army belonging to no one but the State would also prevent civil wars. This one we’re preparing to fight, and in which I want to take part at all costs, should be the last one. Even
though I see this less as a civil war than as a hunt for some glorified criminals who have become too powerful for simple operations of public order.”
“Bollocks!” shouted Antony suddenly. “Absolute bollocks!” Lepidus attempted to calm him down by discreetly gripping his forearm, but with absolutely no effect. “You’re behaving like a snake as usual. You always move in the shadows, hatching your convoluted plots like the slimy coward you are! You’re not capable of facing your opponents like a man! And not because you’re a child – because you’re a coward!”
This time Octavian smiled in satisfaction: Antony’s anger was an admission of defeat. “Fine,” he said, pleased. “And now you’ve got that off your chest, can we talk about more serious things? I’ll go to war because the soldiers know that I’ve got their interests and desires at heart more than anyone else, and that more than anyone else I’ll ensure they get the revenge they’ve been seeking. And I suppose that I’ll go with you. So, Lepidus, I’d suggest you be so kind as to give me and Antony some of your legions, so we can create an army that will guarantee us victory. And I’d suggest dividing Gaul’s provinces, Antony. Which would you like to keep?” he concluded, sure that he now had them in the palm of his hand and that he could permit himself to be conciliatory.
“All of them, as I’ve already told you. If I have to share the campaign against Brutus and Cassius with you, I’ll need something to help me swallow the bitter pill. Otherwise, take Lepidus. Though with all due respect, my friend,” Antony added, turning to his companion, “I wouldn’t bet on your victory.”
Despite wanting to explode as Antony had, the young consul remained calm. Antony knew he had something that he could blackmail Octavian with: his worth as a commander, something which the young man had needed ever since he’d appeared on the political scene. He was right: it wouldn’t be the same with Lepidus leading the troops. Lepidus would doubtless be more accommodating, and would perhaps even cede supreme command, but he was a much less effective tool than Antony, who was the best leader around, at least until Agrippa, and possibly Rufus, acquired some experience.
He made a tentative attempt to win him over, but knew Antony wouldn’t give in. “Take the Gallic provinces away and there’s little left for me and Lepidus to divide. I reckon you should at least give up Cisalpine Gaul…”
Antony looked him in the eyes for a long time, then declared, as though making an official statement, “I get all the Gallic provinces, Lepidus gets the Spanish provinces, you get Italy, Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica, and Africa.”
The prospect of Mark Antony being free to control all the Gallic provinces, as Caesar had done in his time, was frightening. Octavian had wanted to weaken him, but this way all he was doing was strengthening him, and conversely it was he who was coming out weakened, with the dead wood of a hard-to-govern Italy, a Sicily virtually occupied by Sextus Pompey – who would force him to wage war on two fronts – and a largely useless Africa.
“And what about the legions?” he asked.
“Lepidus will give up seven for the war, but only for the war: four to me and three to you.”
This time they had evidently prepared for the meeting. “Why fewer to me? I’m the consul…” he muttered, realising he’d spoken with less assurance in his voice and cursing himself for letting a sense of defeat show.
“You won’t be a consul any more, as we’ve said,” Antony replied, his self-confidence, in contrast, growing. “Once this new judicial triumvirate is formalised, you’ll resign your position, which Ventidius Bassus will take up. If you want, your cousin can remain a consul until the end of the year.”
Octavian’s mind began to work. There appeared to be no way out. It seemed the sect’s efforts had enabled him to participate in the war against Caesar’s killers and gain more legions, but for the time being, that was as far as he could go. He tried to think of all the potential benefits he could extract from this new situation: after all, these two thought they’d caught him out in spite of his intrigues, and that would make them surer of themselves, meaning they were more likely to let their guard down and leave him free to manoeuvre for the sect’s objectives.
In addition, he would still be getting three legions, taking them away from possible future enemies and therefore weakening them. And when the time came to give them back… well, he would find a way of getting out of that. Thanks to Antony’s collaboration he had a real chance of destroying Caesar’s assassins once and for all, without having to chase them one by one, and as for the loss of the consulship, well that wasn’t such a great loss: he could manoeuvre the Senate through Pedius. In any case, the three of them had agreed that each triumvir would have the same powers as a consul. For a while, at least, he wouldn’t have to watch out for Antony and Lepidus and all their friends, of which there were still many at large.
But above all, he had ensured himself a pre-eminent position for five years. Over that time he would be able to consolidate his relationship with the army by promoting rewards and reforms in favour of the soldiery, and show that he cared more for the common good and Rome’s welfare than the other two. And in the end, tired of the constant bickering between the triumvirs, the Romans would choose him and opt for a monocracy. In the meantime, the Sect of Mars Ultor would be able to further consolidate itself, branch out, and take possession of the nerve centres of Roman society.
“It would seem that we are partners, my friends!” he exclaimed at last, with a genuine smile.
“Very well!” said Antony, standing up and holding out his hand. “What would you say to ratifying the agreement by marrying my stepdaughter, Clodia Pulchra?” he added cheerfully.
Octavian let a few moments pass, just to show a semblance of surprise.
“I’d be honoured,” he said finally, pleased to see that Agrippa had done his part.
*
Agrippa woke with a mixture of excitement and fear. Excitement at the prospect of Fulvia’s imminent visit, fear for what that terrible woman might do to him. There was no doubt she was determined to make him suffer. He had asked for a physician to treat his injured penis, but none had come: obviously, she had expressly forbidden it. Who knew what else she had in mind: the only guarantee he had was that she still wanted him. Indeed, more than ever. The only thing he was sure of was that she would keep him alive, but that wouldn’t save him from further trouble.
Trouble that he realised he actually wanted to suffer.
That woman had bewitched him right from the start, and now that Etain’s benign influence was no longer around to counter her perfidiousness, he felt that no other girl could save him from that unhealthy relationship – a relationship he desperately wanted to leave behind him whilst at the same time abandoning himself to completely. It was not love and never would be, at least not on his part, but it was a tie that risked becoming even more binding.
Perhaps it already had, he thought, if he was there waiting anxiously for her instead of focusing on the decisive events which were currently taking place – events in which he had a part to play.
When Fulvia’s statuesque figure appeared, bathed in the sunlight that penetrated the thin gap between the tent’s leather flaps, his heart began to beat even faster. He’d thought a lot about the position he’d like her to find him in, changing it constantly, and had finally decided to welcome her stretched out on the bed, as though to show her that he was willing to play any game she might have planned for him.
Again Fulvia said nothing. As she slowly moved towards him, his cock began to harden, causing intense pain where her teeth had cut the flesh. She stopped a few paces from his bed, and, with studied movements, took off her cloak and tunic to let him admire her naked body. Agrippa swallowed and began to sweat, then freed himself of his thong, revealing his fully erect penis. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of the wounds she’d caused and the blood that had begun to colour his pubic region.
For a few instants they remained immobile in a state of tense paralysis, that same tension upon which F
ulvia seemed to feed. “I’m not like this,” Agrippa kept repeating to himself – far from being exciting, the tension was consuming him. And yet, he didn’t want to pull out of the game. It was a sort of voluntary, conscious condemnation.
Fulvia continued to move closer and, once by the bed, climbed onto it, placing her feet by Agrippa’s sides and raising herself to her full height. He watched as she towered over him, her curvaceous breasts up above, and began to touch her already swollen nipples, swaying voluptuously as she slipped a hand between her legs. Agrippa would have liked to imitate her, but as soon as he touched his increasingly swollen member the pain got worse. He grimaced and Fulvia noticed immediately. With a wicked smile, she lowered herself straight onto his groin, guiding him inside her. She didn’t pause for a second and immediately began to move her pelvis frenetically, supporting herself with her feet and hands.
Agrippa cried out in pain, as well as pleasure. He tried to grab her sides to restrain her, but she shot out her hands and grabbed his wrists, then began to move even faster, looking at him with an air of challenge, and he realised that if he complained he would suffer a lot more. So he fell silent, letting out just a few gasps of pleasure.
He let her ride him and hold his arms still. Fulvia’s gasping breath was close to his face, but she wouldn’t let him crane his neck to kiss her: every time he tried, she pulled his head back, smiling even more perfidiously. Her sighs gradually increased in intensity, until they reached a culmination of pleasure, which made her scream and move on him even more.
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