Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  “You look lovely mother, so much so that I’m worried your friends in Rome will begin to resent you out of jealousy.”

  “Friends are worth sacrificing for looking so beautiful,” Marcus Phillipus similarly satirically expressed, entering the garden and smiling broadly. The elderly but red-blooded senator was still as attracted to his wife today as he had been on their wedding night. Phillipus was also happily not immune to the feelings of pride and satisfaction he felt by having such a sophisticated and admired wife by his side.

  “Now you are teasing and confusing me as to whether you’re being serious or not,” Atia replied, radiating from the compliment and from having her family around her. Only Octavia, her daughter, was missing from the pretty and familial scene. But she hoped to soon see her also, and her husband, during their visit to Rome.

  Atia cuddled up to her husband whilst still caressing her son’s hair. Having so seldom been apart from her child over the years, it was an emotional enough occasion for the devoted mother to bring a tear to her eye. Partly because her playing with his hair had irritated him, Octavius got up to hug his mother.

  “Now, you promise to write?” Atia half demanded, rather than requested.

  “Only if you promise not to cry, mother. If nothing else it will ruin your make-up,” Octavius replied, touched by his mother’s love and silliness. Atia’s response was to let out a laugh cum sob. She clasped her son close, as if he were still a baby, and wetly kissed him upon his cheek. Unseen by Atia, Octavius rolled his eyes and raised his eyebrows to his step-father, partly from embarrassment, and also to display how he was himself above such womanly sentiment as his daffy mother. Marcus Phillipus knowingly grinned and nodded his head at his step-son, pleased and approving of Octavius for indulging his mother so.

  Octavius indulged his mother also by waving and remaining in sight of the litter until the Rome-bound party disappeared over the hilly horizon. He returned to the house and checked the rusting sundial in the courtyard. He still had a few hours to kill before his afternoon lesson with Cleanthes. As Octavius here thought of Briseis he felt a little ashamed and dejected as he remembered how Cleanthes had warned of such consuming passions and unbecoming behaviour. But nevertheless the philosophical youth was compelled to venture into the staff quarters of the house to seek out the pleasure-loving girl. Frustration and indignation heated his blood however, after being told that the mistress of the house had allowed Briseis some time off to visit her mother. Atia had suspected that something might be going on between the servant girl and her son, so out of precaution (telling herself that she was protecting both the girl and her son) she had sent the temptation away.

  For the next hour or so Octavius lay on his bed, unable to read. Simmering. He was furious at his mother for ruining his fun, interfering. He was also troubled by the fact that her sending Briseis away meant that she had most likely discovered the extent of their relations, and he dreaded the scene of having to discuss the matter with her. But more so Octavius was annoyed with himself - that the servant girl’s absence had made him burn with such emotion and affect his mood. It did not help that every time he closed his eyes he thought of her. Although she probably had little choice in the matter, Octavius now turned against the object of his ardency for leaving him. Why had she gone? She hadn’t even tried to say goodbye to him. She was just a whore and he should treat her that way. His frustration was intensified by the fact that there were no other girls like Briseis in the household. Not only did Octavius duly want to relieve himself of his disappointment and stress - and forget about Briseis - but in the act of taking another girl he would also be getting his revenge on her, not to mention his overly possessive mother. Octavius slyly smiled at the prospect of turning defeat into a victory. But his dejection soon returned, restlessly bubbling his blood and thoughts alike.

  The sullen young noble unfairly and irrationally snapped at a couple of slaves when getting ready to depart for his afternoon lesson. Partly because he wanted to be alone, Octavius decided to ignore the instructions of his mother and venture over to Cleanthes’ house without an escort. He ordered one of the staff to tell Oppius that he would be making his own way to the tutor’s house. The centurion would not be happy - and the slave might even suffer a beating for being somehow remiss, but such was the saturnine mood that Octavius was enmeshed in that he didn’t much care for the consequences of his actions.

  6.

  A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded his face in the midday sun. Octavius moistened his lips and as he did so, tasted the salt in the air. The journey would take a little longer, but he had decided to take the coastal path to his tutor’s villa. As the solitary walker wended his way around a secluded bay, he couldn’t help but be reminded of that similar, crescent shaped beach which he had landed upon that stormy evening.

  The first thing Octavius remembered about the morning after was Roscius defending and deflecting jibes in relation to his aquatic prowess, or rather lack of.

  “I come from Umbria. We have no need to be strong swimmers. When we do drown ourselves, it’s in drink.”

  Perhaps it was from this morning onwards that Octavius noticed and liked the infantryman more. Roscius had been a soldier for most of his life, to the point where he knew nothing different. One campaign had blurred into another. The legionary held a vague dream of settling down one day on some land outside of Rome, but he was realistic enough to know that the idea was but a dream. The standard bearer was obedient in taking orders, yet could be left to think for himself in carrying them out. He was good-humoured yet disciplined; Octavius noted how the men respected, or feared, the giant of a soldier also. In battle he became a bear of a man. Yet Roscius was generous and patient with the inquisitive youth when Octavius near pestered him as to the life and details of soldiering. And also stories about Caesar. In return the illiterate legionary avidly listened to Octavius when he reported the feats of Odysseus, Achilles and Aeneas to him - sometimes quoting Homer from memory, word for word. So too Roscius was never far away from the boy when there was a hint of danger. Oppius had observed how the youth had taken to his friend - and so ordered Roscius to watch over the boy until they reached Caesar’s camp.

  For his own part, Oppius had little time for the privileged adolescent. He would do his duty by him - or rather Caesar - but that was all. Indeed a splinter of resentment towards the boy couldn’t help but lodge in the centurion’s heart as Oppius’ task of babysitting had kept him from Caesar’s side - and the rewards of a true campaign. He feared that, absent from the great dictator’s side, he might miss out on worthwhile spoils and advancement. Campaigns, or deaths rather, provided promotions. There is always someone willing to stab you in the back and take your place, Lucius judged from experience. For a brief moment however, during the previous night, Oppius had been pleasantly surprised by the youth with his calm and courage under pressure; the boy had kept his head in the confusion and terror of the storm - and he had displayed hidden stamina in his swim to shore. But the sickly and over-studious boy would, at best, grow to be but the shadow of the man Caesar was. Although granting Octavius a modicum of respect for his display the night before, Oppius couldn’t help but recall and compare the scene in Alexandria with his general. Whilst leading a sortie on a bridge in the city, Caesar and his cohort were suddenly counter-attacked. To save himself from capture Caesar daringly jumped off the bridge and into a boat. His men soon followed. Realising how the wounded needed space, he quickly ordered himself and his officers out of the small vessel. Oppius smiled, remembering the majestic sight of Caesar swimming two hundred yards to reach his fleet, holding his left hand out of the water to preserve some documents he was carrying, and clenching his purple cloak in his teeth to prevent his enemy from recovering it as a trophy.

  There were around thirty survivors on the beach come morning. After the small reconnaissance and foraging party returned, Oppius took command of the bedraggled group (consisting of another centurion, a dozen legionaries and variou
s other members of the cohort’s retinue). Small cliques were forming, with the sound of the tide accompanied by murmurings of discontent. Some wanted to remain on the beach in the hope that a friendly vessel would sail by. Others wished to take their chances on their own, as a large group would attract attention and more likely be captured. But the focused centurion ordered that they break camp immediately. They would all make their way to Caesar’s stronghold, which Oppius calculated was a three day march away.

  “If we stay here, we die. What ships we spot will be enemy or pirate vessels. Storms on land I can steer us through. We have given our oaths to Caesar that we would deliver his nephew to him. Anyone that forsakes that oath will forsake their life.”

  “But how will we cross enemy territory?” a dissenting soldier, who was not a member of Oppius’ own cohort, protested, taking it upon himself to speak what he thought was the majority opinion of the group.

  “By not crossing me. I have time to fight anyone over this, but not argue,” the centurion pronounced, with even the men who little knew of Oppius’ reputation believing that he would make good his word - both in terms of leading them through the next few days and punishing anyone who opposed him. No one said a word later that afternoon when the dissenting soldier returned from a toilet break with a bruised eye and broken rib. Roscius came back with a sore hand.

  “Be ready to leave by the time I’ve sharpened my sword. Anyone who lags behind will get left behind,” the stone-faced soldier closed his brief address by stating.

  Oppius’ fellow centurion was no doubt disgruntled that he had assumed sole command, and a portion of the party were far from optimistic in regards to their fate, but nevertheless they broke camp and, much like now (as he stood and appreciated the Apollonian shore), Octavius gazed back down along the Spanish sands and thought to himself how beautiful nature was, as if created by the gods for our enjoyment and praise.

  Not wishing to appear lacking, Octavius steeled and drove himself on whilst marching on that first day. Scouts were sent ahead and occasionally the group had to retreat into the woodland which flanked the dusty road on both sides, but for the most part the first day’s march proved uneventful. From the bloodied and broken state of the soldiers, they observed it was clear to Oppius that the war was almost over in favour of Rome. Caesar had done it again.

  Partly due to Octavius pushing himself to his physical limit, and having developed a slight chill from his swim, he grew weak and began to suffer shortness of breath as evening closed in. Without conveying the fact to the boy however, Roscius and Oppius had a pre-prepared signal, which Roscius would initiate, when he considered that Octavius needed to rest. At that point Oppius would allow the entire party to take a water break or catch their breath. He rolled his eyes or grunted slightly at having to organise his plans around the over-indulged youth, but nevertheless Oppius faltered not in doing his duty to the boy, or rather Caesar. Although it had been his intention to march throughout most of the evening, a brief word from Roscius made up his mind that the group should cessate their progress and sleep for an hour or so. With Oppius not permitting the group to light fires, arguing that it was “better to wake up shivering, than dead”, Roscius sacrificed his cloak for the good-natured youth and used it as an extra blanket to keep the boy warm while he slept.

  Later that evening, in the grey light of a swollen moon, Oppius and Roscius spoke about the day’s events and the plan for the morrow.

  “Will he be able to keep pace?” Oppius asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

  “Our pace? No. But the lad has done well. You should be pleased with him, impressed even,” Roscius dared to say, in hope more than expectation of receiving a positive reaction from the hard-hearted centurion.

  “You more than most of my friends know that I’m not easily impressed. I dare say necessity has also become the mother of invention for the boy to exert himself, rather than his mother exerting her need to be a necessity.”

  “You’re too hard on the lad.”

  “He should thank me for it. Everyone else is far too easy on him. And he is nearly a man, not a boy. By the time I was his age I had killed - and more than once.”

  “And you’re now old enough to know that’s nothing to be proud of,” Roscius replied, his expression momentarily pained as the veteran’s heart recalled some of the best forgotten experiences of his own youth. Roscius fleetingly placed his hand on his brow, as if he felt a headache coming on, but then took a healthy swig from his fast emptying cup and regained his good humour.

  “Would you want him standing by your side in a shield wall? That should be the question,” Oppius asked.

  “Not yet. But I’d certainly sit around and share a drink with him.”

  “But you’d drink with anyone.”

  “I know. Cheers.” And with an affable smile upon Roscius’ face, the two friends clinked cups and finished the last of the wine they had saved.

  Despite nursing a hangover, Oppius made the aching-limbed party rouse with the dawn. They still had a lot of ground to cover. Again, scouts were sent ahead to reconnoitre the roads they intended to take. Oppius was now certain that Caesar had bested the enemy - the rebellious, Republican forces of Pompey’s sons, Sextus and Gnaeus.

  Perhaps even more so than yesterday, the day seemed uneventful to Octavius. It was now a matter of routine to stealthily retreat into the woods whenever a scout warned of a group of soldiers or natives approaching. At times Octavius even forgot his situation and his mind wandered. He noted how similar the landscape was to that of his family’s estate in Velitrae, a small town just outside of Rome. The dry but fragrant air was the same. The wind rustled through the cypress trees in a familiar way. The crickets and thrushes spoke the same language. Even considering his bouts of illness and the loss of his father, Octavius’ childhood in Velitrae had not been an unhappy one. In some ways his name had been a burden, but equally so the studious youth looked upon it as being something he should live up to. From as early as Octavius could remember it had been his heart’s desire to please his great-uncle. And from his infrequent visits over the years and inspirational letters, Caesar was proud of his nephew. The gratification spurred the youth on the more to better himself, to study harder and be a good Roman. Octavius often couldn’t help but fondly smile, remembering his privileged and fulfilling upbringing. But then a knowing and cautious expression would shape his features. Octavius was wise and pragmatic enough to focus on the future rather than dwell in the past.

  The day was long. Dusk was short however. A deep mauve, which soon darkened to a bluish-black, combed itself across the sky. The firmament then grew hazier as a brash storm exploded in the air above them.

  Octavius’ feet grew even more leaden as the rain mulched the dirt road into mud. He might have even been pleased when one of the scouts returned and reported to Oppius that there was potential danger up ahead. They could now hide and find shelter. Rest.

  A thin wisp of smoke spiralled upwards from a small house on the side of the road. Coarse laughter, as well as the smell of roasted venison, emanated from the dwelling. The second scout, who had remained with the house (and who had smeared himself in mud, camouflaged himself in branches, climbed a tree and assessed the enemy from close quarters), reported to Oppius that the enemy soldiers in the house numbered a dozen. He had also yet to notice a picket stationed up the road.

  “I think we deserve that shelter and a hot meal more than they do men, eh?” Oppius said, wolfishly grinning to the soldiers who nodded in agreement, their eyes alert with the happy anticipation of both the fight and food. Oppius drew a quick sketch with a stick on some soft ground of the target. Four men, armed with javelins, would first attack in pairs through the two windows of the house. As soon as they struck however, Oppius, along with six other men from his legion, would come through the entrance to the cottage.

  “Lose anything from your belt that isn’t necessary. You’ll need to be free to manoeuvre and react quickly once we
’re inside the house. Surprise is on our side and will do half the job. Immobilise rather than kill to begin with. Make every hit, cut, count. Roscius, I want you to remain here with Octavius. Regardless of what happens, I want you both to keep out of sight.”

  No word or movement was wasted. Octavius was frightened and excited as he watched Oppius and his band of brothers stealthily move through the woodland and approach the cottage. His chest swelled with the pride that he was in the presence of the best soldiers in the world, Roman legionaries. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an anxious looking Roscius nervously biting his lip. He well knew that Oppius would succeed - and he understood how he needed to take care of Caesar’s nephew - but it still felt strange being absent from his centurion’s side in a fight. The water annoyingly collected and then heavily dripped down on his face from the leaves above, but Octavius, still wide-eyed, sucked in the scene.

  The sound of the hissing shower was broken by the grunt of a legionary throwing his first javelin. The noise was quickly succeeded by a cacophony of confusing roars and agonising screams. Roscius grabbed the youth’s shoulder, as if to hold him back, whilst in reality the action was taken to remind him why he had to remain back from the fight.

  Oppius soon returned however, his face spotted with blood and crumbs of flesh - which were soon washed away in the drizzle. His arm however, up to his elbow, was dark crimson - and his sword was streaked with gore. He offered his standard bearer a brief nod to convey that everything and everyone was fine. Octavius heard the desperate protests and pleadings of an enemy prisoner in the background, but they were soon silenced. The brief blood-curdling scream which sliced through the night and into Octavius’ ears turned his stomach, but still the youth was eager to witness the sight of the carnage in the house. Oppius frustrated this desire though and ordered that Roscius and he remain where they were until sentries were posted and the house was cleaned up.