The client system was a crucial feature of Roman life and politics. A powerful Roman was a patron, or protector, for many hundreds or even thousands of clients, not just in Rome and Italy, but also across the Mediterranean. These networks of mutual aid cut across social classes and linked Romans to people in the provinces.
Clientship was not legally binding, but its rules were almost always obeyed. A patron’s client list lasted from generation to generation and was handed down from father to son.
A patron looked after his clients’ interests. He would help them out by giving them food, money, or small parcels of land, or by standing up for them if they got into trouble with the law. In return, clients were expected to support their patron in any way they could—voting as he wished at assemblies and campaigning on his behalf when he stood for office. In Rome, clients would pay their respects at their patron’s house every morning and walk with him to the Forum.
Gradually Gnaeus raised an army of thirteen legions, although many of these were inexperienced Spaniards. The dictator’s legates in Spain were unable to make headway against the rebels; by the beginning of November 46 B.C., it became clear that Caesar’s personal intervention was required to put out a fire that had reignited and was blazing out of control. At short notice, Caesar set off for yet another campaign. Rome, once again, was left waiting for news.
Caesar had hoped to have Octavius accompany him to Spain; this time, there seems to have been no parental objection. Now in his eighteenth year, he was no longer a child, and for those of his social class the next step in one’s education was a spell of service on a general’s staff. Evasion would have been seen as evidence of cowardice.
Unfortunately, the young man had not yet fully recovered from his illness; his great-uncle told him to follow as soon as he was well enough. Anxious to leave Rome as soon as possible, Octavius gave his full attention to restoring his health. Even before he was perfectly well, he made arrangements for his journey—in his words, “according to my uncle’s instructions,” for that was how he referred to Caesar when he sought prompt compliance with his demands.
Many volunteers wanted to join his expedition, including (to his intense embarrassment, we may guess) his mother. Like many parents of children with a weak constitution, Atia was finding it difficult to let go of her grown-up son. In the event, Octavius selected a very small escort from among his strongest and speediest servants. He was also accompanied by three of his closest companions, among them, it can be assumed, his dear friend Agrippa.
He had a dangerous journey. It is not known exactly when he set out or which route he took. During the winter months, sailing was unsafe, and it is plausible that he left Rome in February or March and followed the land route via southern France. Once Octavius had reached Spain, though, he would have encountered signs of the enemy, who dominated the north, and of brigands, too. He may then have taken his courage in both hands and boarded a ship at Tarraco (today’s Tarragona).
Despite the risky weather it would be safer to sail down the coast to Nova Carthago (Cartageña), which, all being well, would still be in Caesar’s hands and where he would be fairly sure either to find him or at least to establish his whereabouts. This was a sensible decision, but sailing anywhere in the winter months could be dangerous. Boats seldom drew more than three hundred tons and were often struck by sudden Mediterranean squalls; the compass not having been invented, sailors tended to hug the coasts. Presumably a storm did overtake Octavius, for he apparently suffered a shipwreck before reaching his destination.
He and his small party arrived to find the war over and Caesar victorious. Once again he had missed the chance to blood himself in a real battle. He soon briefed himself on the lightning campaign:
After some maneuvering, the two armies had met at Munda (near Osuna in southern Spain) on March 5, 45 B.C. Caesar was a commander of genius; he was decisive, brave, and, even in the heat of battle capable of creative thinking. He understood the importance of luck in war, and he worked hard to earn it. In particular, he prided himself on his celeritas, moving his forces with great speed and turning up where and when the enemy least expected him. His weakness was an occasional overconfidence, but he always managed to extricate himself from problems of his own making. For once, though, there had been no refinements of strategy, no brilliant insights on the battlefield by the commander. Munda had been a blood-soaked slog.
Most of the Pompeian leaders died fighting and their heads were brought to Caesar for his inspection. There was no revulsion now, one notes, as had been the case when Pompey the Great’s head had been presented to him in Egypt. Gnaeus escaped the battle, but was quickly caught and killed. His head, too, found its way to the victor, who had it displayed to the crowd to prove the death, and then buried.
Nobody was greatly bothered when it was noticed that Gnaeus’ little brother, Sextus, had slipped away and disappeared from view. He was surely too young and inexperienced to cause trouble. Sooner or later the boy would turn up and there would be plenty of time to deal with him then.
About the battle, Caesar remarked wryly: “I have often fought for victory, but on this occasion I fought for my life as well.”
Octavius eventually caught up with Caesar near a town called Caepia, where he was presumably still conducting mopping-up operations. The busy general was delighted and surprised to see his great-nephew and enfolded him in a warm embrace. In fact, he would not let Octavius out of his sight, but made him live in his own quarters and share his mess. He complimented the young man on his enthusiasm and loyalty—and also will have remarked on his astuteness, for he was among the first of what would become a flood of dignitaries making their way from Rome to greet, and sometimes make their peace with, the all-conquering dictator. Octavius had not waited, as others had, for the outcome of the war before setting out on a long and dangerous expedition.
During the month or so before leaving Spain, Caesar went out of his way to get to know his great-nephew better. According to Nicolaus, “He made a point of engaging him in conversation, for he was anxious to make a trial of his understanding, and finding that he was sagacious, intelligent, and concise in his replies, and that he always answered to the point, his esteem and affection for him increased.” As the weeks passed, Caesar gradually came to a final, firm, and highly positive view of his young relative.
Years later, Octavius’ enemies claimed that he slept with his great-uncle in return for his favor and affection. It is true that Octavius was a pretty boy, that Caesar may have been sexually omnivorous, and that Roman laws against incest prohibited only sexual relations between paternal kin. However, military campaigns are not an ideal setting for romance, and sex between soldiers was an offense: a wise commander would not break the rules he expected the rank and file to obey. Had there been anything much in the story, it would surely have been common gossip at the time and received wider and earlier currency in contemporary accounts.
Caesar’s next destination was Nova Carthago; he arranged for Octavius to board the same boat as his, together with five of his personal slaves. Without seeking permission, Octavius could not resist slipping his three closest companions aboard as well. Doubtless the journey was to be in a naval galley, where most of the limited space below decks was taken up by rows of oarsmen and space was at a premium. Not unnaturally, Octavius feared that his great-uncle would be cross, but there was no trouble. Caesar approved of Octavius’ friends, whom he found to be observant, enthusiastic, and competitive. It was good that Octavius liked to have them around him—partly for protection, but also to enhance his own reputation as someone supported by men of good sense.
Caesar had to decide everything and, like rulers in all ancient, pre-bureaucratic societies, he was obliged to spend much time receiving petitions, agreeing on and bestowing awards and rewards, and adjudicating quarrels. Octavius was able to help. He had already learned the art of mediating between his great-uncle and the rest of the world, every member of which seemed to have an urgent
demand.
A long queue of petitioners sought Octavius’ good offices, as they had done a few months previously in Rome. This role of benevolent broker had surely been agreed in advance between him and the dictator, partly to smooth the conduct of business but also as on-the-job training in public administration.
At last it was time to go home—to Calpurnia and Cleopatra, to Atia and Philippus. The civil war was definitely over. No enemy was left standing. What now? This was a hard question to answer. At the pinnacle of his success, Caesar should have had little on his mind to trouble him. But like so many conquerors before and after, he had learned the hard lesson that military victory does not necessarily win consent from the vanquished.
The army soon encountered streams of noble Romans approaching from the opposite direction. Everyone of importance had felt it necessary to take to the road and greet the Republic’s new master. At Narbo (today’s Narbonne), Mark Antony arrived, to find that his misgovernment of Italy in 49 B.C. had been forgiven. So far as Caesar was concerned, their quarrel was over. He invited Antony to ride with him, displacing Octavius, who traveled in the following carriage with another Caesarian supporter, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus.
Under the pressure of the dictator’s displeasure, the reprobate appeared to have turned over a new leaf, toned down his public extravagances, and directed his thoughts to marriage. His eye lighted on Fulvia, the widow first of a murdered gang leader, and then of a Caesarian tribune. The alliance was as much political as personal. According to one ancient commentator, she had “nothing womanly about her except for her body.” Intelligent and intemperate, she was able, and more than willing, to give her new husband some sensible career guidance.
The dictator and his entourage arrived in northern Italy in July. He planned to hold a triumph in October, but the legal fiction that it marked a victory over a foreign enemy was embarrassingly unconvincing. Nevertheless, he observed the convention that a conquering general had to remain outside Rome until the date of his processional entry into the city.
He made for an estate of his southeast of Rome at Labici (today’s Monte Compatri), where he spent a few weeks. Here he was able to find some peace and quiet, and time for thought. For years, he had been extraordinarily busy, fighting or legislating, and he needed a holiday. He was aware, too, that his health was deteriorating; his proneness to what may have been a form of epilepsy, or spells of dizziness, was getting worse. He was reported to have had a fit in Africa and another on the day of the battle of Munda.
It is probable that Octavius stayed with him for a while. Their relationship was becoming closer and closer, and Octavius, who had tested his physical stamina to the limit, would have profited from a rest as well. At some point he asked leave to go home to see his mother, who had doubtless pressed him to do so in a letter, and Caesar gave his permission.
Although he was approaching his eighteenth birthday, Octavius retreated into domesticity. After the excitements of his Spanish adventure, his life became quiet and uneventful. He spent much of his time with his mother and stepfather, seldom leaving them. Occasionally he invited some of his young friends to dinner, Agrippa and Maecenas presumably among them. He lived soberly and moderately. Nicolaus reports that, unlike many upper-class young Romans, especially those with access to money, he abstained from “sexual gratification.”
Octavius’ good behavior is as likely to reflect a concern for his health as a virtuous disposition. This was an age when the principles of hygiene were little understood, surgery was life-threatening, medicines and medical advice were of uncertain value, and few illnesses were easily cured. Unsurprisingly, many Romans concentrated their attention on prevention. According to Celsus, a medical expert who wrote in the first century A.D., a healthy man “should sail, hunt, rest sometimes, but more often take exercise.” He should spend time in the countryside and on the farm as well as in town. Doctors advised that people whose health was delicate should take care to avoid any kind of physical excess. We may take it that Octavius and his ever-anxious mother did exactly that.
Caesar set in motion a flurry of important social and economic measures, but he was wearying of Rome with its tiresome and self-destructive politics. He had received reports of a conspiracy against his life. If he had ever intended to reform and restore the constitution, he now gave up the attempt. He would leave Rome to its own devices, for power lay wherever he happened to be, not in the Senate House or Forum. He was worried by the growth of a Dacian empire in the untamed region of the southern Danube. The barbarians there needed to be taught a sharp military lesson.
Also, the Parthian empire had been restive since Crassus’ failed invasion of 53 B.C. Once the Dacians were dealt with, Caesar decided to lead a great punitive expedition against it. He began to assemble an army of sixteen legions and ten thousand cavalry; six thousand troops had already crossed over to Greece and, encamped near the city of Apollonia, awaited the launch of the campaign the following March. He expected to be away for three years.
Since the victory in Spain, the Senate had awarded him ever more extravagant honors. Caesar was allowed to add the word imperator, “commander in chief,” to his name as a hereditary addition (until then it had been awarded by soldiers in the field after an important victory); likewise, his son or adopted son was to be designated pontifex maximus on his death. These two heavy hints pointed to the possible establishment of a dynasty, even if no obvious successor existed, or was even on the horizon.
The dictator loved women but begot few children; the only known offspring had been a beloved daughter, Julia, and (one assumes) Caesarion. If he had no legitimate son himself, he would have to find somebody else’s. Adoption was common in Roman life, a strategy for binding clans to one another, as well as for making good genetic deficits. Kinship and loyalty to the familia and gens were valued very highly, but little attention was paid to strict blood ties. Men often adopted the grown sons of others.
Octavius will have pondered these matters. Where, if at all, did he fit into this glorious future? Might he, at some stage, be designated his great-uncle’s heir? These were daydreams. The dictator showed no sign of leaving the stage, and even if he were to do so, Octavius was far too young and inexperienced to step into his giant shoes. If Caesar lived another ten years, and if Octavius proved himself worthy of responsibility, then, just possibly, he might be seen as a potential ruler with all the gravitas and auctoritas such a figure would have to command…. For now, though, Octavius had more immediate matters to engage his attention.
The dictator was burdened with business, but he did not forget his great-nephew. He decided that the boy would accompany him on the great Parthian campaign planned for the next spring. Toward the end of 45 B.C., he sent him to Apollonia. There the young man would spend four months completing his education in literature and public speaking.
He would also undertake training with the army, as it awaited its general and the long march to the east. At last Octavius would acquire some military experience.
V
A BOY WITH A NAME
44 B.C.
* * *
The city stood on an extended hill overlooking the river Aous, where the remains of its ancient perimeter walls can still be seen. Today the marble columns of the council chamber, and a street with a central stone pavement on an extended hill overlooking the Aous, are evidence that the place thrived in antiquity. In spring, this part of the site is smothered in wildflowers. Not far away are the foundations of a public bath and a large stoa, or roofed colonnade. A small theater, or odeon, with seats for six hundred, has had its steps restored and is used for modern concerts. A larger theater, seating 7,500, is in a poor state of repair.
The small acropolis at the far end of the city, where a few olive trees grow, gives a spectacular view of the surrounding landscape; originally it housed a temple, probably dedicated to Apollo or his sister, Artemis.
Apollonia, although little remembered today, was what Cicero called a “great
and important city.” Founded in the seventh century B.C., for many years it was a place of no very great significance, because it gave access only to the turbulent tribes of Illyria and Macedonia. Italians traveling to Greece or the Middle East found it easier and safer to make their way by sea from Brundisium.
However, Rome needed a fast and reliable connection between Italy and its new provinces, especially for the safe and speedy movement of armies. So in 130 B.C. the Via Egnatia was built. This highway, linked by a loop road to Dyrrachium and Apollonia, transformed the strategic importance of the two ports. It ran along a river into high uplands, skirted two mountain lakes, and descended to a plain near Thessalonica on the seacoast. It then followed the littoral to the small town of Philippi and on to the Hellespont (the Dardanelles).
In late 45 B.C., the eighteen-year-old Gaius Octavius settled into lodgings at Apollonia. He was accompanied by Agrippa and another early friend, Quintus Salvidienus Rufus, who was older than Agrippa and, like him, not of noble blood; also, perhaps, by Maecenas. Little is known of Salvidienus’ origins, but he may have been an officer of Caesar’s. Perhaps Octavius got to know and like him in Spain; in any event, he was one of the small group of intimates on whom he depended.
The young men exercised with squadrons of cavalry. By virtue of his kinship with the dictator, Octavius was of high status, and senior officers used to call on him. He gave everyone a warm welcome and was popular both in the city and in army circles. He was given good reports by his instructors.
Apollonia housed a well-known school for public speaking (or rhetoric), comparable with those at Athens and Rhodes. Octavius studied there, and read Greek and Roman literature. He wanted to become proficient in Greek as well as Latin, and he was an assiduous student. As well as literature, he studied elocution. He brought with him a tutor from Rome, Apollodorus of Pergamum, one of the most celebrated teachers of the day, although a very old man.
Augustus Page 8