Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  Roscius’ bristled face conveyed relief and then stern authority. He was thankful of locating the boy quickly.

  “You shouldn’t be travelling alone, Octavius. More importantly, you shouldn’t be upsetting Oppius,” Roscius remarked, torn between wishing to rebuke the young master of the house, and finding his daring and defiance amusing. For all of the years he had known his centurion, through winning over his men and campaigning on four corners of the map, it was a teenager who now proved to be his most challenging antagonist.

  Octavius but half heard the advice and warnings of Roscius, partly distracted as he was by the memory of a similar scene. Fear had also been happily and swiftly succeeded by relief back then as a group of ominous sounding horsemen approached their shipwrecked party in Spain. It had been the morning after the attack on the cottage. The woodlands had thinned out and the group marched through dusty plains and farmland. A couple of distant plumes of smoke animated the pale skies from where Pompeians, or Caesar, had instigated a scorched earth policy. The party was weary with each member, bar the tireless lead centurion, harbouring a suspicion that they were perhaps lost. Oppius heard the doom-laden noise first, fearing that his scouts up ahead had been lost to the prospective enemy horsemen. With an absence of forest cover to retreat into, Oppius quickly, but far from desperately, ordered the party to form square - the cohort’s defensive formation to combat a cavalry attack. A square was efficiently formed, betraying years of practise and drilling. Shields were interlocked. Spears then protruded out from the fence of large, curved scutums like the spines on the hide of a porcupine - upon which not even the most daring, or stupid, horse would ride onto. A half a dozen men - including Oppius, Roscius and Octavius - occupied the centre of the square. Oppius was thankful - and praised Fortuna under his breath - that he had a trio of archers next to him. Roman confidence, with a shard of a threat, imbued his tone as the centurion advised the party that if they held their defensive positions and made their arrows and javelins count, they had nothing to fear.

  “We will be fighting an already defeated army. They won’t even need an excuse to flee, but I’d like to give them one all the same,” Oppius exclaimed in order to ease some of the tension etched in the faces around him.

  Octavius stood close behind the battle-ready Roscius. His mouth was dry, with both thirst and fright. His legs, which not five minutes before had felt stiff from marching, now felt loose - to the point where he thought that they would give way if he ran. A natural sense of dread sent a shudder down his spine, to a degree where the youth felt that an actual serpent could be slithering up and down his back. He shivered, yet sweated in the heat.

  The thunderous tumult of hooves grew closer, louder. Octavius darted a quick look at Oppius and even he wiped the perspiration from his brow and gripped his javelin with apprehension. Out of the corner of his other eye Octavius was briefly distracted by the sight of an archer’s bicep bulge as he nocked an arrow and drew the drawstring back on his bow in readiness.

  The bright scarlet plume on the Roman cavalry officer’s helmet shone all the more starkly in the sepia-tinged landscape. The collective sigh of relief, or deliverance even, from the shipwrecked party was palpable as the decurion and his patrol saluted their fellow Caesarians. Believers and non-believers alike gave praise to Victoria, Jove, or some other indistinct deity.

  The decurion, having encountered Oppius’ scout, had galloped towards the party upon hearing that Caesar’s nephew was with the group. After the battle Caesar had been looking forward to seeing the boy - yet over the last day or so he had grown anxious as to the reason why he hadn’t reached them already. Knowing how much Caesar favoured the youth, the decurion was keen to treat the boy well. He made sure to warmly, yet deferentially, greet the dictator’s nephew. Octavius was all too aware of the cavalry officer’s flattery also upon saying how brave and tough he was to have survived the shipwreck and marched so far, so quickly. Although Octavius replied that everyone was to be praised for equalling the feat he duly separated himself from the hardship of the group by accepting the decurion’s offer to ride with him as they escorted everyone back to the camp.

  Octavius’ privileged position also afforded him the opportunity to catch-up on the latest news as the cavalry officer reported upon the success of the campaign to Oppius. Gnaeus Pompeius was dead, killed whilst fleeing. Sextus was still believed to be commanding his troops in Cordoba, but he could well now be retreating and heading for the coast. The key battle had been at Munda, on a slope outside of the hill town. Caesar had tried to draw the enemy down from the higher ground but Gnaeus Pompey, learning from his father’s mistake at Pharsalus, refused to give up his advantage and remained resolute. Caesar would have to come to him.

  And so Caesar’s legions, outnumbered yet more experienced than their opponents, moved up the slope towards Pompey’s forces. They wavered yet broke not under a shower of javelins. Many of his men were already fatigued from the long march to reach the enemy. Perhaps this was one battle too many for even the indomitable Tenth Legion, Caesar’s loyal favourite which had followed him across Gaul, Germania, Britannia and to Pharsalus and Egypt. His army wasn’t retreating, but the momentum of his advance had faltered. At best the battle hung in the balance. Caesar acted. He suddenly dismounted and charged through his own battle lines, grabbing a shield from a mesmerised legionary. The General then imperiously stood out in front of his army, his scarlet cloak billowing in the wind. To attract the attention of his men - and enforce the fact that it was indeed Caesar who stood before them - he removed his burnished helmet.

  At the very least the front ranks were distracted from their burgeoning fears and the gruesome sight of so many of their fallen comrades bloodily strewn around them.

  “Aren’t you ashamed to let your general be beaten by mere boys?” Caesar opened with, waving a dismissive hand towards an enemy army filled with raw, teenage recruits. A storm of anger and defiance was worn in the imperator’s usually gregarious and handsome brow.

  “Only victory will bring peace to Rome and these lands. Defeat will bring more than dishonour. If we win that hill then we shall not only win the spoils of war, but also our freedom and the right to return home. But if we fail here, this will be the end of my life - and the end of more than just your careers.”

  Pride, fury and resolution began to transform the visages of the officers and legionaries around Caesar. Centurions ordered men to form ranks again. The familiar, rousing sound of swords and spears drumming upon shields began to reverberate down the line. The ever-alert general also heard the sound however of orders and movement behind him, from the enemy, as a section of their front rank released a volley of javelins - aimed at the commander. The deadly missiles spewed into the air, clouding out the blue sky, screaming with violence. Agile for his age - and fearless from so many victorious campaigns - Caesar (or ‘Fortune’s son’, as some of his friends and enemies had called him over the years) evaded some of the whistling darts, whilst angling his shield to deflect the others. Still the hordes of spears arched over the hillside and stabbed down upon the general to the point where the sight of Caesar disappeared in the rainstorm of missiles. Both sides knew - cut off the head, the body will fall. Even the veterans of the Tenth held their breath in anticipatory fear - and so too the rest of the legions instinctively realised that if Caesar fell their cause, livelihoods, were lost. His fate was inexplicably, yet tangibly, linked to theirs. They were one. A collective sigh of relief succeeded the baited quiet. Caesar, his splintered shield resembling a pin cushion, lived. Perhaps the gods truly did favour their undefeated general. Perhaps Caesar was even a god himself. A cheer, part triumphal, part goading towards their enemy, went up.

  “It looks like their aim is as steady as their hearts. Well, what are you waiting for?!” And, to the thunderous roar of the stirred-up ranks, Caesar drew his sword and proceeded to stride up the slope towards Pompey’s formations, as if he were prepared to fight the enemy on his own. But Caesar wo
uld be far from alone. Even before a riled centurion bellowed and punctured the air with a rousing “Onward!” many of the men had already commenced to surge forward, a rippling tide of steel and nerve. The ground rumbled. Men flocked around their valorous general, forming a protective wall of shields around him. The thought that they had nearly just lost him redoubled their efforts to protect their commander in chief - and fight for him. Yet Caesar had no intention to remain behind a shield wall and survey the battle from a distance. He would stay at the vanguard of his beloved Tenth Legion, spurring them on. His sword was as bloodied as any man’s in the ensuing fight. Rear ranks on both sides pushed the forward ranks on, the roars of the former often drowning out the wails of the latter. For a time the battle remained at a stalemate, with Death alone reigning supreme. Charon, the ferryman, would be busy by nightfall. Bloodily, steadily, Caesar and his Tenth Legion began to inch their way forward up the hill, diminishing Pompey’s left wing. Pompey, realising the danger - and fearing that history was about to repeat itself (it had been Caesar’s veteran Tenth Legion which had broken his father’s left flank at Pharsalus) ordered his cavalry over from his own right wing to bolster his wavering left. Caesar, upon being informed of the opposing general’s move, promptly told one of his staff officers to seek out his own cavalry commander, Nonius Asprenas. The order relayed was for Asprenas to attack the enemy’s left wing, preying upon the withdrawal and weakening of Pompey’s forces there. The young, inexperienced recruits however, which populated Gnaeus Pompey’s centre, mistook their general’s troop movement for a retreat. Confusion fed upon itself. Like men jumping from a sinking ship the resolve of the virginal soldiers dissolved. Men fled - in their thousands - dropping weapons, either running towards Munda or out into the expansive Spanish plains behind them. The retreat was soon transformed into a rout. Caesar’s cavalry cut down hundreds, like farmhands scything down wheat. A few of Pompey’s men fought on, like Pompey the Great’s veteran Fourteenth Legion - fighting to the death rather than surrendering. But Caesar had remained undefeated in his final battle. The civil war, after five long years, was all but over.

  After the decurion’s summary of the battle, Oppius questioned the cavalry officer as to who had survived, or who had been lost, in the engagement - concerned as he was for old comrades and his chances of advancement. Octavius, however, lost interest in the exchange and became occupied with his own thoughts. As gripped as the youth had been by the account, he also felt awe-struck by Caesar’s dramatic heroism - and anxious that he was now about to be confronted by him again. As egotistical as the accomplished teenager had become over the last couple of years, he naturally felt small, inadequate, as he placed himself before Caesar. A wave of admiration, other-worldliness and intimidation, ran through him even upon just whispering the name. Caesar was dictator, pontifex maximus, the conqueror of Gaul, Germania and Pompey. He had won more battles - and pushed back the frontiers of the Empire - more than any other Roman. Writer. Great orator. Winner of the corona civica. Indeed Octavius realised that he perhaps had a deeper and firmer relationship with the idea of Caesar, rather than with the actual man. As well as being quite daunted by the prospect of being summoned by Caesar, Octavius felt a certain privilege in that, whereas kings and other great men would bow and call him Caesar, he could call him his great-uncle. At the same time though, Octavius could be acutely aware that, rather than being his own person, his existence only inherited any value through being Caesar’s nephew. But why had he been now summoned by his great-uncle, Caesar? Had the last five years changed him? Octavius smiled when recalling the affection and generosity his uncle had once bestowed on him after the twelve year old boy had composed the oration at Caesar’s mother’s funeral. Caesar had wept at his words. The following morning Octavius woke to the gift of being presented with half a dozen books that his uncle had recommended him to read the evening before, as the two of them, alone, had spoken about literature and “being a Caesar” on the balcony of his villa. “Always be the best,” his uncle had stated. Those words had been a spur, and burden, to the sickly boy ever since. Octavius’ fond, reflective expression soon returned to a more serious, anxious form. Years of campaigning, a war which had torn the world in two, must have taken its toll. Stories of executions had replaced stories remarking upon Caesar’s clemency. He had heard the gossip of how Caesar had been seduced by a young Egyptian queen. The dictator had even erected a statue made from gold, dedicated to his decadent mistress, inside the Temple Of Venus. It was sacrilege. What the young, stoical Roman first considered untrue eventually became unjustifiable, un-Roman.

  *

  Whilst in Munda the weary teenager had accepted the offer to ride on the back of a horse towards the army camp, Octavius politely here declined Roscius’ invitation to ride on the back of his mount in order to reach home sooner - and placate Oppius. He would walk. Despite his fatigue and eagerness to return home Octavius, to flaunt the fact that he considered himself free from the authority of the domineering centurion, occasionally slowed himself down and stopped altogether on his way back to the house, whether to take in a view or examine a specimen of plant life. But it wasn’t the flint-faced, reproving figure of Oppius who greeted Gaius Octavius when he returned home. It was someone rather different, in every way.

  9.

  Briseis. The lone demure figure of the eighteen year old servant girl standing outside of the front of the house captured Octavius’ attention immediately, like thunder or sunshine. Roscius, and the small group of horsemen flanking him, took their leave of the young master of the house after they had passed through the gates of the estate. She cocked her head a little, slyly smiling as he approached - as though she knew and appreciated what the lusty youth was thinking. Her almond eyes narrowed and smiled, as sultry as the heat. Octavius tried to conceal his pleasure at seeing the girl, but for once his marble expression was fractured and his feelings, desires, poured through the cracks. They walked towards each other, a certain humorous (giggly, flirtatious) expression lining their semblances. Octavius removed his sun hat and ran his hand through his golden hair to straighten it out. Her honey skin glowed in the blush of dusk; she prettily tucked a couple of strands of her long, sable hair out of her eyes and behind her ears. Her dress was cream-coloured, made from Egyptian cotton; the perspiration from her previous labours caused the material to cling to her alluring figure (her round, pert breasts, contoured waist and strong, supple thighs). In order to make herself pretty for her young master, and to stress how the servant considered herself above a slave, Briseis adorned herself with jewellery - a necklace strung together with some semi-precious amethyst stones, which shimmered with the azure of the ocean. Bright copper bangles decorated her wrists. The serving girl had also borrowed a delicate gold chain, which she had stolen from her mother’s room at home, which she wore as an anklet to help direct attention to her feet and shapely calves. Briseis’ mother had herself used the trinket, a gift from a lover, many years before. Before, when Briseis had tried to wear jewellery, Atia had chastised the serving girl, ordering her to remove “every last cheap bauble” and to not get ideas above her station again. But the jealous old woman wasn’t here anymore. Briseis would have Octavius to herself for once. Briseis’ mother, Helena, was at first both a little confused and upset in response to her daughter’s request to return to her duties having been given time off - but her daughter’s performance of displaying a sense of duty and a work ethic eclipsed any suspicions or doubts she owned in regards to her motives.

  Helena had herself been a slave who had obtained her freedom. Or rather the master of the house had conveniently bestowed it upon her out of precaution from his wife finding out about his affair with the kitchen girl. Once free, Briseis’ mother sold herself as a prostitute. At first Helena resented the arrival of the unwanted Briseis, but she duly brought the girl up on her own. Her father could have been any number of men, none of which she could dare compromise. She found time to earn a good living as mistress to variou
s Roman officers and bureaucrats. As her beauty waned - and her trade dried up - Helena increasingly sacrificed her own time and energies for her daughter. She saved some money in order that her daughter would not have to lead the life that she had. She would try and give Briseis the right education - so she could marry and become a lady. But Helena was not an alchemist - and one cannot fashion gold from brass. The first tutor she had, the teenage girl seduced. The second attempted to seduce her. The next couple of tutors – women - gave up on the wilful, ignorant girl. And so, to teach her a lesson so to speak, Helena had sent her daughter off to work as a servant - in hope that in discovering how desultory the work was she would prefer to return to her studies and embrace her mother’s ambitions for her. Yet Briseis cultivated ambition more than her mother could have fancied. She would be a Caesar’s concubine - was that not better than a life of being a wife to any other man?

  The fatigue that Octavius had experienced - and the anxiety he felt at having to encounter a rankled Oppius - evaporated as soon as he entered the gates to the estate. The centurion wasn’t even a memory anymore. Desire now consumed his heart…as well as other organs. Briseis had returned for no other reason but him. Octavius had hoped that he’d performed well as a lover, but did this not prove it? Yet, in quieter moments, Octavius also hoped that he was stimulating the girl not just through the act of sex, but rather he desired to touch her heart and instil in the girl the kind of finer feelings that he felt for her. He could not remember who had made the first advance between them. Initially they shared but clandestine glances. More than anyone else it was Briseis who Octavius would request to perform an errand for him. She laughed at his jokes. Her Latin was poor and so he used Greek, improving it as he did so. Indeed Octavius began to ask Cleanthes how he could improve his vocabulary - and what did Greek girls like? The former amorous tutor duly advised his pupil, half amused by the smitten student and half concerned for him. Love can be a sickness, as well as a salve he warned. Coy glances over the dinner table soon became more open and coquettish on the girl’s part. She often brushed past him; her dress would be unbuttoned a little to reveal the promise of her perspiring bosom as she leaned over and re-filled his water jug. He tried to engage her intellectually. He would quote Euripides. He mentioned how beautiful her name was - and was she named after the Briseis of the Iliad, the woman who captured the heart of Achilles? Her reply was to shrug disinterestedly, cutting off Octavius’ intended speech about Homer and the power of poetry before he even began. Yet he happily dropped the subject, captivated by the enticing smile upon her moist, pink lips.