“Good, good Tiberius. But I am still looking for more. You’re still fencing, not fighting. Who wants to try and surprise me then? Anyone? None of you other ladies want to dance?”
“Agrippa. I might’ve known you’d be up for some punishment. No sooner have the bruises disappeared from our last bout than you want me to paint some more on your body. You’re either brave or stupid lad.”
Agrippa merely raised a corner of his mouth in a half-smile as a reply. He then swung his sword around in his hand to loosen up his wrist whilst walking towards an opponent who he - and every other pupil in the class - had still to best. Rufus smirked and shook his head in bafflement that Agrippa would volunteer to face the sadistic veteran.
At first, pupil and teacher sized each other up and moved around in a circle together, but then they simultaneously locked horns. Agrippa rarely lunged or lost his composure in this initial exchange however, preferring to keep his distance, parrying Casca with energy saving wristy flicks of his birch wood gladius. Conscious of retaining a good defence, Agrippa also easily evaded the ex-soldier’s sweeping leg, which had twice caught out Tiberius.
Octavius noted how the fencing master, for once, was breaking sweat also. He had watched Marcus observing the footwork and potential weaknesses in the tutor’s technique. Agrippa had once remarked to his friend that Casca’s tactic was always to counter-attack and let his opponent make a mistake.
“Again class, we have someone who can fence but can’t fight. Your blood would be browning the sand if this was a battle right now,” the goading teacher issued, wiping the perspiration away from his forehead. Whilst Casca was distracted with this little speech however, Agrippa subtly dug one of his open-toed sandals into the blanket of fine sand which covered the ground. In a further bid to distract and disorientate his opponent, the fresh faced student winked at the cantankerous veteran. And with that Agrippa flicked up the mound of sand he carried in his sandal into the eyes of the unsuspecting fencing master. Without hesitating, he thrust his sword and body in one movement towards the half-blinded Casca. The experienced combatant put his sword up however, and successfully blocked the incoming blow, with sword upon sword momentarily resting on each other like a hammer upon an anvil. But Agrippa was not finished fighting yet. Deploying the plan of attack that he had formulated beforehand, Agrippa made a fist with his spare hand and swiftly crouched and punched his half-blinded opponent in the groin. Casca roared in pain and stepped backwards, doubled up in acute torture. Before he even knew what was happening, the old soldier felt the rough edge of a wooden gladius upon his leathery neck.
Neither Agrippa, nor the rest of the class, knew what was coming next however, as they had yet to see their master bested. His opponent more than anyone was fearful - more scared now than at the beginning of the bout even - of what the egotistical teacher might do in response to being defeated. Breathless - and still somewhat in that certain agony and discomfort peculiar to man - Casca gazed up at his pupil and spoke.
“So you do know how to fight, as well as fence,” he exclaimed, with a child-like expression on his face that Agrippa had not seen before. And with this remark and brief, private look between teacher and student, Agrippa too smiled and the tension went out of his still combat-ready body.
“I must teach you one final lesson now Agrippa,” the tutor announced to the class in general, “After the heat of battle, one must learn to cool off.” The doubled-over old soldier suddenly mustered all the speed and strength inside of him and picked his unprepared student up. Casca then carried Agrippa over his shoulder and dropped him into the trough of water by the house. Laughter trumpeted out from every student within the watching class, bar the envious and resentful Tiberius. Agrippa took the joke in good spirit. A glow of pride also filled his heart as Casca offered him his hand in order to help him out of the trough. As he did so the teacher quietly remarked to his favourite pupil, “You will not just be fighting with legions one day lad - you will be leading them.”
3.
After instructing Agrippa to go inside and ask a servant to attend to him, Casca reverted back to his severe self and gave a lecture to the attentive class. “Viciousness, allied to intelligence, triumphs on the battlefield”. He proceeded to run through various tactics - such as eye gorging, stamping and hamstringing - that would come in handy in a melee.
“If you have a helmet and your opponent doesn’t, butt him...your shield should not just be used for defensive means. The umbo here protrudes for a reason - to ram into the pate of your opponent.”
After the lecture the teacher arranged for a number of demonstrations, at half speed without actual contact, to illustrate the practicalities and effectiveness of fighting - as opposed to fencing. He closed the demonstration by dressing up one of the class in a Roman legionary’s armour and discussing its weak points - and when and where to use the edge and point of the gladius upon such targets as the groin and neck. Upon asking if there were any questions a young Roman, he must have been no older than fifteen, wondered why they were being shown the weak spots in Roman armour, as opposed to those of their enemies?
“Romans shouldn’t fight Romans,” a corpulent and over privileged youth, one Ulpius Gabinus, remarked sententiously.
“They shouldn’t, but unfortunately they do. And if you spent as much time learning your history, as you do eating Gabinus, you’d know that also,” the veteran said with a practiced sneer, formed from half a lifetime of having to take orders from equally ignorant and pompous legates.
In the final hour or so of the lesson, Casca organised a small tournament, consisting of sword and shield bouts between classmates. Octavius won two but lost three of his contests, which was a disappointing but not unprecedented result for the diffident swordsman. Even Rufus bested him. The smug grin across the aristocrat’s face smarted more than the bruise on his shoulder, which was also a reminder of his defeat. More so it preyed upon Octavius’ mind that the result of the contest might find its way back to Oppius, who in return might report the poor display back to Caesar. A cloud of potent shame hung over the sensitive youth, imagining his uncle’s disappointment. “Always be the best,” Caesar had asserted to his nephew. He so desperately wanted for his great-uncle to be proud of him. He wanted to repay his faith in him - be worthy of the name.
Bored by the petering out of the action the crows eventually departed, cawing now in criticism at the lack of bloodshed. Shortly afterwards, peppered in dust and sweat-strewn, the students also scattered in various directions after their teacher called time on their demanding but rewarding lesson.
*
After class the three companions took shelter from the glaring afternoon sun. Passing through Rufus’ father’s estate the three youths rested their aching frames and sunburnt faces on a cool quilt of lush grass. A glade of willow trees, which Rufus’ father cultivated in order that his slaves could produce baskets from them, provided a healthy measure of shade for their desired repose. The rippling sound of a dimpled rivulet trickled in the background and the faint but distinctive fragrance of lemon trees, from a neighbouring orchard, sang in the air to clothe the scene in further meditative pleasure.
Agrippa reclined on the verdure, practising his reflexes. With his eyes alert and the adrenaline still pumping, he regularly shot his hands up in the air in the attempt to catch the flies which dared to buzz over his head. He duly caught more than he missed, carefully keeping track of the score to see if he could beat his record, but eventually the young man grew tired of the game.
Salvidienus, with his fingers laced behind his head in order to protect his hair from the grass and soil, idly dreamed of a life in the Senate. He again listed, and charted, the ‘course of honours’ - the order and offices in which an ambitious politician might make his name in the capital. Quaestor: a junior rank, in which one could serve as a financial officer with the treasury or a clerk with the army responsible for the administration of supplies and plunder. Aedile: an officer charged with administ
ration in Rome itself, the maintenance of its public buildings, streets and aqueducts. Rufus was suitably aware though that his time as an aedile would equally be concerned with staging the ludi Romani, the public games in the city. People today still talked about the games that Caesar put on during his tenure as an aedile. He too would win over the electorate through the spectacles he would arrange Rufus selfishly hoped that his father will have passed away by then so he could afford the gladiatorial contests and parade of exotic animals from his inheritance. After Aedile comes Praetor - one of the oldest and most revered offices in the state. As praetor Rufus could be elected to govern an entire army or province. He could sit as a magistrate in various criminal cases, possessing the power to either condemn or pardon. The sun shone through the leafy arbour as Rufus basked in the warm glow of the idea of Consul - and then Pro Consul. He would be the first Salvidienus to win the honour. Clients would lobby him with petitions. He would make his money, like Crassus, from property - not that Salvidienus would brook at accepting the odd bribe also to finance his honourable course. He would hold court at dinner parties, which would run on till late and turn into private orgies that he indulged. In his mind’s eye a procession of beautiful girls and wives were paraded before him and he picked them out, as if plucking fruits from the bough, to be his lovers. And such would be his success, good reputation and popularity that he would have the pick of commands when proconsul - he would push back the frontiers of the Empire like Pompey the Great and write his name in the annals of Rome.
His eyelids felt as heavy as his limbs, but still Octavius squinted through them and lazily gazed up through a gap in the trees to take in the shimmering blue sky. He was momentarily distracted by a pair of pink finches darting about above him, the female teasingly evading the male in an aerial courtship dance. Eventually she would let herself be caught. Tufts of drifting white cloud parted and came together like giant lumps of wool. As if divinely inspired by Apollo, Octavius suddenly realised why he enjoyed nature so, and found himself at peace in the secluded bower. Nature did not have any opinion of him, or expect anything from him. He closed his eyes in an effort to remember the pleasant vista and reposeful feeling, so as to one day retrieve the memory when aggravated by less concordant scenes. Even this revelation, and the will to record it, became hazy however as the cusp of sleep wafted over him like a precious dream. But just as Octavius was about to pass over into the blissful realm, he was disturbed by a conversation which sprouted up and demanded his attention.
“Has your father said anything about you wanting to become a legionary?” Rufus, seemingly out of the blue, asked Agrippa.
“No, but I’ve still yet to tell him. He knows that I’m no farmer, though. Besides, I’ll tell him that someone needs to keep Octavius out of trouble.”
“I’d be more worried about you leading him into it. I have visions of you stepping out of the ranks, like you did today, and volunteering to take on the entire Parthian army. But your mind is made up; you definitely want to be a soldier?”
“Yes. Unlike you two, my family has yet to make a name for itself. I want the house of Agrippa to come out from underneath the shade of anonymity.”
“Anonymity can sometimes be a blessing, as well as a curse, Marcus. And, like your virginity, once sacrificed you can never get it back again,” Octavius mused, as much to himself perhaps as his companion.
“That’s far from the best of your conceits. I’m convinced that most people would happily lose both sooner rather than later,” Rufus replied.
“So when and where are you hoping to lose your anonymity, Rufus?”
“In the Senate, as an advocate. Sooner rather than later as well.”
“You sound determined, Rufus. Why do you want to be an advocate, if you don’t mind me asking?” Octavius inquired, mildly curious.
“I’m going to study to be an advocate so I never lose an argument with my friends. But seriously, look at our history. Advocates, senators, are the ones who are all powerful in Rome. What laws we don’t make up, we can always interpret to our own devices. I’m joking, or at least half-joking. But the pen is mightier than the sword.”
“So does that mean you’ll be bringing a pen along to Casca’s next sparring session then?” Agrippa posited, grinning at both his own witticism and also Rufus’ self-important air.
Out of the corner of his eye Rufus saw Octavius smile also, and he felt that infrequent but familiar twinge of jealousy again that he wasn’t as close to Octavius as Agrippa was. No matter what he did or said they would always have a special, closer relationship. To silence these envious, sullen murmurings however, Rufus spoke and tried to continue the conversation.
“So what do you want to be, Octavius?”
Agrippa here propped himself up and turned to where his best friend lay. Surprisingly he had never asked Octavius such a question. And so too, Octavius had never confided in him as to what might be the answer, if indeed he had one. Being Caesar’s nephew Gaius could surely have the pick of any career he wished, whether he chose to work his way up the political ladder, be given a foreign posting or commission in the army. Or he could afford to carry on with his studies, which he seemed to enjoy.
“I want to be…left in peace for an hour or two so I can take a nap,” the evasive student answered, wryly smiling. Octavius enjoyed keeping people guessing, as though the whole of life was but a game in which he who could keep people guessing most, won. Or it was a cynical play, in which one acted out various parts to garner applause. “It is where you are placed at the end of the race that counts,” his great-uncle had said with a boyish wink to him one time.
*
The sun arched overhead and lost some of its sting, to be replaced by a stodgy humidity. Octavius glanced at the sky, increasingly fomented and furrowing his brow. It would rain before he made it home. Three became two. Octavius and Agrippa had bid Rufus a farewell and the two remaining companions made their way home. Agrippa did not need to tell his friend to keep it between them when he spoke to Octavius about what Casca had said.
“And he should know. You should be rightly proud. I’d certainly want you on my side in a fight, Marcus.” Octavius would later be gladdened by the realisation that he felt better, happier, for hearing this praise for his friend - as compared to the shallow vanity he felt at boasting about his bedding of Briseis.
“And I will be, against the Parthians. I meant what I said Gaius about wanting to come with you. Has your uncle said when he intends to join the army and disembark?”
Gaius, partly to impress Agrippa and partly to signify how much he trusted his friend, had confided in him earlier in the year. Caesar had written to Octavius and sketched out to his nephew the scope and intention of his newest - and most ambitious - campaign. After conquering the Parthians, and winning back the eagles that Crassus had lost, Caesar planned to march around the Black Sea and then onto the Caucasus. From there he would invade and subdue Scythia. The lands bordering Germany - and eventually Germany itself - would then be added to Caesar’s conquests. He would write his name in the annals of Roman History again. Finally Caesar would return to Italy via Gaul, thus completing the circuit of his Empire, which would be bounded on all sides by the ocean. Pompey would finally live in Caesar’s shadow. Perhaps more than the dictator even, Marcus Agrippa was champing at the bit to take part in the historic campaign.
Octavius’ brow began to further crease as warm droplets of rain began to pelt down. A dreary shade of grey poured across the sky, like smoke. After a pause he finally answered his friend as to when they would depart.
“Soon, after the Ides.”
4.
When Octavius returned to the house the young master was handed a towel by one of the servants to dry himself off from the rain. There was a frantic and industrious atmosphere around the estate as slaves and a small retinue of soldiers busied themselves for the departure the next day. The axels to baggage carts were being greased with tallow. Food and presents were being packed
. Clothes were folded. Rose petals were being scattered in order to perfume the carriage for the long journey. Atia and Octavius’ step-father, Lucius Marcus Phillipus, were travelling back to Rome for business - and pleasure - in the morning. So as not to disturb his studies and military training Octavius had been asked to remain at home, a situation which the youth understood and complied with.
Octavius passed into the atrium and heard voices emanate from the triclinium. He tensed slightly as he heard Lucius Oppius’ terse voice. A second later a brace of soldiers marched out of the room and brushed past him.
As if he had sensed his presence, Oppius stuck his head around the curtained door and glared at Octavius. The youth always felt a little intimidated under the stern centurion’s gaze - as though he felt that he should be impressing the soldier, but wasn’t. His compressed jaw was covered with stubble that was as abrasive as sandpaper. The careerist soldier, who might have been aged anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five, towered over most in terms of his height and build. Oppius was a keen rider and swimmer; furthermore, when not attending to the drilling and administration of the legion, the consummate centurion would spend his time in frequent fencing and combat practise. “The harder I practise, the luckier I get,” Octavius had once overheard him drily state. His blue eyes were striking but ultimately cold, like two sapphires set within a marble statue. The only time when Octavius had witnessed the centurion enjoy himself was when he was in the company of his great-uncle or Mark Antony. Caesar was the only man who Oppius truly respected. Octavius could still recall the scene when his great-uncle asked one of his most trusted lieutenants why he wasn’t married.
Augustus- Son of Rome Page 2