Fed and warmed by the room’s crackling fire, Octavius still found it difficult to sleep. His feverish imagination played tricks on his mind. The owl’s hoot was amplified to a howl. The scuttling of a spider became a rat, with teeth as big as a hare’s. The sound of the sentry’s patrol outside was turned into the enemy approaching the house. As the Romans had ambushed the Spanish, Octavius imagined how they too could be assailed at any moment. He feared waking suddenly in the night to see a swarthy barbarian over him, with a blade at his throat, and thus was prevented from swiftly drifting off to sleep. Eventually however exhaustion got the better of his febrile thoughts and Octavius finally slipped into a quilted slumber.
7.
A gassy stench, similar to that of the refuge which sometimes built up when neglected from outside his own house, wafted up Octavius’ nostrils as he went inland in the direction of his tutor’s villa.
“Far more than my rumoured misanthropy, the inhospitable smell of the marshes keeps prospective visitors away,” Cleanthes had once wryly remarked to his pupil. “I also can’t help but have affection for the marshes, as their location and aesthetic saved me a welcome sum of money when purchasing the land.”
Octavius scrunched up his features in disgust at the foul smell, and swept his hand in front of his face to brush away the cluster of flying insects swirling around him. He quickly ventured forward, however, along the squelching path, knowing full-well that he would soon come out into a quite different setting.
As the nauseating odour of the marshes had suddenly descended on Octavius like a noxious rain cloud, so too did the kaleidoscope of fragrances and colour strike his senses as he entered his tutor’s garden through a half-concealed entrance. The menthol crispness of fresh mint and rosemary, as well as various other herbs, cleared out his nose immediately.
The faint sound of rustling, accompanied by the frequent metallic snap of a pair of garden shears, reverberated in the air. Octavius gazed, admiringly and amusedly, at his teacher whilst his back was turned to him. He was wearing a belted careworn cream gown made of a coarse material over an equally shabby tunic. His figure and movements were robust and senses alert though as, either through hearing or even smelling his pupil, Cleanthes ceased pruning his clematis and turned to Octavius.
Although he had been tutoring now for half of his adult life, Cleanthes considered himself to be an eternal student, rather than a teacher. His green eyes sparkled at seeing his accomplished pupil. There was an air of philosophical calm about the wistful gardener yet at the same time one sensed a restless mind at work: observing, collating, concluding, disregarding. His jade eyes shone brightly, but his skin was sallow and marked - both through pox scars and also insect bites. His dark brown hair and beard were also as unkempt as his clothes, shining with a film of grease.
Cleanthes was born in Athens. His father had been stable master to a series of Roman administrators. Such was his service to one of the ruling governors during his tenure upon the estate that the quaestor granted the stable master his freedom. Cleanthes’ father, taking out a loan, quickly prospered as a horse trader, providing cavalry horses to the Roman army during its conflict with Mithridates. Wanting to give his son the kind of education that had been denied to him, Cleanthes’ father enrolled his son in the finest academies and hired the most expensive tutors to teach his only child. And initially his investment paid off. Cleanthes proved to be a gifted pupil, proficient in logic, rhetoric and the practical sciences. When the feted student completed his studies he was courted by a number of wealthy patrons who offered the tutor various sums of money and gifts to join their particular household in a bid to out-do their neighbours. Initially Cleanthes declined. The attraction of spurning these incentives - and affecting an air of incorruptibility and intellectual independence - soon waned however, especially when his policy of rejection caused patrons to increase their offers.
Although it did not happen overnight, a certain dissoluteness and rebellious streak eventually instilled itself in the young sophist’s life. Drink and women displaced his scholarly interests. Having tasted the pleasures of Athens, the moneyed young man even ventured to visit Rome to satiate his circadian appetites. The conceited academic told himself that his new way of life, centred among the taverns and brothels, was a philosophical experiment - for how can one know true virtue unless one has experienced vice? His dissolute reputation soon preceded him however, and his employment dried up.
Despondency and impoverishment followed hard. His father all but disowned him. An aged gardener, who worked outside of Athens, took him on. Cleanthes learned a trade and eventually freed himself from those vices which had eaten away at so much of the rest of his life - partly because he just couldn’t afford his former lifestyle anymore. A year or so later his father died. He left his only son with a modest inheritance. Desiring a fresh start, Cleanthes moved to Apollonia and purchased the client list and equipment of a gardener there. He worked hard and supplemented his income, in order to buy some land and build a house, by privately tutoring a few select pupils. Within five years Cleanthes had earned enough money to settle into semi-retirement. He produced most of the food he needed himself and sold off any surplus at the market. He studied horticulture and occasionally still tutored the odd pupil who he believed had potential.
On the recommendation of Atticus, Cicero’s trusted and learned friend, to Marcus Phillipus, Octavius was interviewed one day by the reclusive, but respected, tutor. Cleanthes was impressed by the youth and his willingness to learn - and it was a source of pleasure more than a task when Octavius visited him every week now. Such was the youth’s progress that, in certain areas of epistemology and ethics, he had little left to learn. Cleanthes was impressed, yet a little saddened, by the young man’s nihilistic thinking. Octavius had argued how there was no sovereign rationale for any course of action. “Meaning can be negated, or made to seem relative.” It was one’s will, or emotions - one’s personality - which ultimately stimulated action. “Ideals are frippery, or afterthoughts that seemingly justify one’s purpose. We put them on and take them off again like garments, according to the weather or whims. All is vanity.” Octavius here briefly uncoupled his chain of thought. He half-smiled and shrugged, and then remarked, “Philosophers can and do argue themselves to death. Is it not soldiers, men of action - Alexanders, Sullas, Caesars - who rule and shape the world?” Upon another occasion recently, Cleanthes was struck by how much further reading his student must have been doing, unprompted by the tutor. Debating the theory of knowledge Octavius suddenly quoted Timons, “That honey is sweet I refuse to assert; that it appears sweet, I fully grant ... And how do we know what is sweet? What is sweetness? - We can infer, but we can never know ... Philosophy is but the sum of meaningless words ... Words, words, words.” As superior as Octavius could feel in arguing such things, these conclusions would often dissatisfy the once idealistic student. Life should not be so annulled. Occasionally however such conclusions and theses would liberate the young nihilist: “If nothing is for certain, then everything is possible.”
“You’re late Octavius, again. The opening and closing of my tulips keeps better time.”
“Fortunately or not, they do not have half of Polybius to read before they rise.”
“You are beginning to have an answer for everything.”
“I have had a good teacher.”
“Or maybe your lateness furnished you with plenty of time to prepare an excuse. Whether you consider it a reward or punishment, I’d have you read the other half of Polybius to make up for your tardiness.”
Octavius smiled and nodded his head slightly, assenting to his teacher’s instruction, acknowledging his wit and apologising for his misdemeanour all in one gesture.
*
By now there were very few formal aspects to Octavius’ lessons. For the most part Cleanthes just talked to his pupil and answered his questions, as one might converse with a familiar, older acquaintance. Whilst doing so Cleanthes often tended
to his garden, infecting his student with an interest in horticulture and botany. Towards the end of the afternoon, as was his custom, Octavius turned the conversation towards Rome. He enjoyed his tutor’s insights and witticisms in regards to the city’s history, as well as its current statesmen and policies.
“When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, that now bloody river, Rome, as well as Caesar, crossed a point of no return. Or perhaps it was Gracchus who brought us here, or Sulla even. But Rome is fated to be seen as a prize that’s won, rather than a master which must be served,” Cleanthes remarked, his tone neither critical nor lauding Caesar, as he tied back some wayward vines on his plants with twine. “One can mourn the idea of the Republic, but not the reality. There were too many personalities, but not enough characters. Money spoke in the Forum, rather than principles. Vetoes were issued for petty reasons, such as who was sleeping with whose wife. Tribunes became demagogues or thugs, serving themselves rather than the electorate. People went hungry whilst others glutted themselves during extravagant feasts. The social and economic divides between rich and poor grew too pronounced - and everything tumbled into the chasm which was created by the divide. Soldiers were given broken promises. The Republic, Senate, was only consistent in its themes of greed and hypocrisy. Marians fought Sullans and vice versa, long after both men were dead. There were too many parasites bleeding Rome dry. ‘Tis an unweeded garden,” Cleanthes wryly posited, as he stretched down and plucked a couple of weeds out of the black soil of his vegetable patch.
“Men’s ambitions and their desire to make a profit are among the most frequent causes of deliberate acts of injustice. People who lay out sums of money to secure office get into the habit, not unnaturally, of looking for something in return,” Octavius enjoined, with a tinge of both sadness and anger in his tone, making reference perhaps to the corruption of the ability to collect taxes for Rome going to the highest bidder. Cleanthes nodded in agreement, and also in appreciation, of his student quoting Aristotle in his argument.
“But yet whilst terminally ill, the Republic is not quite dead yet. The Senate might have been won with the sword, but your great uncle’s victory must be maintained by him unsheathing his wits and knowing when to compromise. Caesar will not be able to cut off the heads of all his enemies, for he will unleash a hydra by doing so. Should he unfairly vanquish an enemy, then two will stand in his place,” Cleanthes warned, briefly pausing to watch a spider spin his web across his blackberry bush - smiling in anticipation and revenge, in that the web would catch some of the irksome insects which plagued him of an evening whilst he slept.
“Why do you not go to Rome? You could make a name for yourself. I could write to my uncle,” the student asked his teacher, after a short pause.
“Thank you for the offer Octavius, but success would be the ruin of me,” the tutor replied, his green eyes glimmering with a private joke as if he were quoting someone else.
“You could be the new Cicero.”
“I’m not sure whether Marcus Tullius would be flattered by that or not. I reckon the ex-consul feels that he has some life in him yet, before he’s replaced.”
“Did you ever meet Cicero when you went to Rome?”
“Our meeting was brief, but memorable on my part. We met at a party thrown by a friend of mine. Cicero was the guest of honour, a position which he felt quite happy and comfortable with I dare say. He dressed smartly, but not ostentatiously - much like you, Gaius. He was neither old nor young when I encountered him, though there was definitely more vigour in his intellect than in his body. For a while I but observed the famous ex-consul. He was a great conversationalist, enjoying listening as well as speaking, albeit I dare say his favourite pastime was to act modestly when listening to people praise him. He could be vain, but self-effacing; critical, but forgiving. I couldn’t help but be impressed by his naturally good, or assiduously trained, memory. He seemed to know everyone’s name and business at the gathering, charming each guest equally with the attention he bestowed upon them. I finally drank enough wine to summon up the courage to approach him. He put me at ease immediately. We talked briefly about philosophy, with Cicero picking holes in his own writings. He also described a Cynic as being “but an ill-dressed and impoverished Stoic”. He was openly satirical about his fellow senators, and the more powerful the patrician, the crueller the barb. He also instructed me a little about the art of oratory, principally by advising me of what not to do. “Just as lame men ride on horseback because they cannot walk, so too our new crops of orators shout because they cannot speak,” he posited. My true claim to fame however, in regards to Cicero, is that I had the honour of witnessing him compose an original epigram in my presence. I commented upon how fine the port was. He paused briefly, with a good-humoured smile upon his face, and remarked, or rather I should say composed the following:
‘There is nothing more to this life
Than some cheap port and a good wife.
But a cheap wife and some good port
Is a life too I cannot fault.’
I smiled as much at the witticism as upon seeing the great Cicero a little drunk. In some ways he is still the First Man of Rome and I know Cicero would be flattered to hear you say that. But even Caesar remarked that he should have won greater laurels than that of Rome’s Generals, for rather than expand its territories, Cicero has expanded Rome’s genius. Many men have tried to be the voice of Rome over the years, but Cicero has I warrant more of a claim now than most, for in his speeches and writings he has revolutionised its vocabulary and articulated its ideals. It’s still important to let the old consul be heard, but of equal importance is not to listen sometimes,” Cleanthes said in a hushed, confidential voice, as though someone else might be listening.
“What about Cato? Did you ever encounter him?”
“No. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn’t ever have the opportunity to meet Cato. I still quite haven’t worked him out. But not even the greatest philosopher in the world - which the Senator might have once argued was himself - could rightly discern when Cato was displaying virtue, or vanity.”
“And Pompey the Great?”
“He spent half his life making his name - and the other half failing to live up to it. But now I am giving you witticisms rather than answers, Gaius. And that is no laughing matter,” the whimsical teacher remarked, amusing himself rather than his pupil now.
8.
Octavius ventured back home. It was now late afternoon but dusk was resting on the horizon to take the sting out of the vermillion sun. The baked dirt track meandered, as too did the young man’s thoughts idly wander - sifting and remembering his recent conversations with Cleanthes. The subject of Cicero (the “Greek-Roman” as his tutor described him) in particular coloured his thoughts. He half-smiled again, recalling his tutor’s judgement of him.
“Cicero is fond of saying that he is dedicated to truth, which is why he has admitted in the past that he is nothing but an actor.”
Yet, for all of the satire and barbed comments surrounding the ex-consul, both Cleanthes and Caesar had spoken well of Cicero. Octavius remembered how Caesar had even given his copy of ‘On The Nature Of The Gods’ to him - and for a month or so he immersed himself in Cicero’s dialogues and philosophy. The adolescent couldn’t help but admire and be inspired by some of his teachings, and equally so his elegant writing style, which impressed upon the intellect and heart alike. Octavius had read his works avidly and repeatedly. Night time had been illuminated by his polished prose and enlightening instruction. Many a time had he hoped to be in Rome with Caesar and introduced to the legendary statesman. Yet always Cicero had been away, or Caesar had been busy.
“I am one of those people who can more easily see why something is false than why it is true ... If conscience goes, then everything collapses around it ... Philosophy is a physician for souls, taking away the burden of empty troubles, setting us free from desires, vanquishing fears ... There is nothing so absurd but some philosopher has said it.�
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As much as his step-father, or Caesar even, Cicero had influenced his education and character Octavius suddenly thought, surprising himself a little by the realisation.
The student was wrenched from his reveries however, on hearing the increasing tamp of horse hooves upon the road ahead. His heart began to canter also in ominous trepidation. Even when young Octavius couldn’t help but be conscious of the potential dangers and enemies he might incur in being Caesar’s nephew. As either a target for ransoming, or a source of bloody revenge, he was fair game for the many opponents of Caesar. And Octavius was still young; he still became unnerved by the introduction of a furtive looking stranger, lively footsteps across the gravel pathway in the dead of night, and the sound of a potential raiding party of horsemen or pirates. Childhood nightmares, consisting of him waking up and having his throat slit, or being hunted down by a band of bloodthirsty cavalry, had not receded completely.
The sound of the four horses, sixteen hooves, drummed upon the ground to create one continuous, violent roar. The ox bow curve of the trail meant that Octavius was blind to the approaching group of horsemen. Surrounded by a cloud of dust the snorting horses careered around the corner. Octavius recognised the Roman uniform and the man leading the quartet immediately. His tense body justly uncoiled itself when he spied Roscius. The legionary, slightly ungainly on top of his chestnut mare, shouted out an order to stop to his men. Octavius remained where he stood upon the side of the road, affecting a state of calm insouciance in marked contrast to the breathless horsemen. The imposing legionary, cursing his charge (and also himself), clumsily wheeled his horse around and trotted back towards the wayward youth.
Augustus- Son of Rome Page 5