Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  They made love.

  A cold bath succeeded their exertions in the steam room. The blazing torch of the sun had also extinguished its orange embers. By the time Octavius returned to his room the moon shone supreme in a cloudless sky. His face buried itself in his pillow. Although exhausted his thoughts were still enlivened by the sensations and memories of his lovemaking. Gaius soon missed her - and desired her again. And Briseis soon duly re-appeared, carrying a jug of wine and bowl of figs, under the cover of nightfall. Waiting until her jealous sorority of servants were asleep she had changed into one of her mother’s old dresses - which left little to the imagination (but fired it just the same) - she slipped in and out of the shadows towards the young Caesar’s room.

  Octavius creased his brow, trying to remember how much wine he had consumed the night before, and how many times they had made love. Dehydrated, Gaius turned to the table beside his bed to see if Briseis had left him a jug of water. She hadn’t. It was perhaps the only thing she hadn’t thought of yesterday he speculated, grinning.

  The groggy youth tried to get back to sleep but his thirst finally conquered his desire to rest and so he arose from his bed. The sundial in the atrium confirmed his internal clock. It was late morning, approaching midday. He would have to miss his afternoon lesson with Cleanthes. The tutor would be disappointed, but forgiving. Octavius would feel guilty later but at present he was too tired to feel anything too keenly. Where Octavius more often than not had been outside the house during this part of the day he was suddenly struck by the sight of the redolent rays of the sun striking one of the mosaic-filled walls decorating the atrium. The mural was a replica to that which adorned Caesar’s family home; Venus and Aeneas populated both Caesar’s wall and ancestry. Senators struck poses and soldiers won victories within the mosaic, lineage, with the triumphs of Caesar himself dominating the lavish and awe-inspiring picture. His great-uncle had once stood before a statue of Alexander and wept. “I have something worth being sorry about, when I reflect that at my age Alexander was already king over so many peoples, while I have yet to achieve anything remarkable.” So too Gaius felt hollow, shame again, in comparing his life to Caesar’s. His life did not merit even a solitary tile upon the mural.

  *

  Spain.

  The site of the camp, especially reconnaissanced by an experienced centurion, was set on a vast undulating plain. A sedate and crystal clear river flowed along its left side. The ground was hard, crisped by the Iberian sun, but still workable. It had not taken the legions an undue amount of time to dig the deep trenches and build the ramparts which encircled the camp. A nearby forest had provided the timber which had been used to construct the four watchtowers which stood at each corner of the rectangular encampment. The commander-in-chief’s tent, topped with a gloriously bright and rippling vexillion, dominated the skyline as Octavius, still seated behind the decurion, approached the camp. He was immediately and intensely awe-struck by the scale and order of the sight before him, inspiring in him a feeling that was particular to being Roman he imagined - a martial pride. A couple of large tents flanked Caesar’s own. Octavius would later find out that they housed an engineering workshop and quartermaster’s store. Two main ‘streets’ ran down from Caesar’s tents - which were marked out by rows of spears - called the Principalis and Via Praetoria.

  To prevent attacks from flaming enemy arrows and artillery fire, a gap was set between the palisades and the vast grid of tents which housed the army. The area was then filled with the army’s livestock (mules, draft oxen, pack horses), as well as prisoners of war and various plunder.

  Broiled beef, sour wine, ordure and the smell of leather assailed Octavius’ nostrils as he slowly made his way through the gates of the camp and up the Principalis. Such was the spectacle and sensory influx of the scenes before him that Octavius was even distracted from his thoughts concerning his imminent meeting with Caesar. Men sat around hunched over bowls of steaming hot porridge or glugged down water or something stronger from their skeins. Choruses of laughter, occasionally counter-pointed with the odd curse or scuffle, also coloured the air. Half of the men seemed to bustle with industry and discipline (or just habit) whilst the other half, off duty, relaxed in various ways - yet all remained fit for service should the trumpets sound. Most ignored the ragged party accompanying the returning cavalry patrol. Others couldn’t help but stare at the fair-haired and studious-looking youth, hazarding a guess as to who he might be.

  Caesar.

  His dark brown eyes were warm and lively, but the strains and privations of the constant campaigning over the years had weathered his complexion a little in the time since Octavius had last seen his great-uncle. He was as close shaved as ever and his hair was trim and carefully spread over his receding crown. Caesar wore a leather breastplate with matching greaves - the armour inwrought with a golden eagle on each impressive piece. A gladius hung from his left hip.

  Julius looked his nephew up and down. His features softened with relief and pride; a charming smile also enlivened an already engaging countenance as Caesar noticed how a poppy-seed stubble had replaced the down upon his cheeks from when he had last seen Octavius.

  “I hear you have bested both Neptune and the Pompeans to reach us. It bodes well, for if they link up through Sextus recruiting an army of pirates then Caesar might have to call on his nephew to defeat them.”

  The men, those from the shipwrecked party and the general’s staff, grinned and laughed a little at their commander’s joke. Octavius blushed, partly because he did not know how to accept the comment.

  “But I should not let my manners be enveloped by my happiness. You must all be both famished and tired. Decimus, please see to all of the men’s needs. Spare no luxury. I thank you all for delivering my nephew to me. This will neither be forgotten nor go unrewarded,” Caesar gregariously declared. Decimus, an adjutant upon Caesar’s personal staff, immediately carried out his orders, instructing others to lead the shipwrecked party off and provision them. Sprits were lifted. The result of their commander’s commending words produced an almost metaphysical alchemy in the souls of the party. They now suddenly looked back at the experience of the last few days with pride rather than bitterness.

  “Lucius, Roscius, I would detain you a little longer. Please, join me for some wine. I dare say you must all be thirsty.”

  Octavius dismounted - with the decurion and his patrol taking their leave - and tentatively approached the dictator. Caesar, who observed and was a little saddened by his nephew’s wariness of him, pretended not to notice Octavius’ nerves. He first addressed the loyal centurion and legionary who stood to attention before him.

  “Relax, my friends. You are not on the parade ground now. How are you Roscius, are you still keeping your officer out of trouble?”

  Not for the last time over the next few weeks, Octavius would be struck by his great-uncle’s familiarity and affection for various soldiers, from all ranks, under his command.

  “I’m trying Caesar,” Roscius replied, smiling.

  “Nay, it rather seems you are succeeding. And I thank you for your service to him, and me.”

  Octavius would think to himself that evening that for all of the criticism Caesar received for him acting like a king, or deity even, few senators deigned to ever lower themselves to talk with such courtesy and sympathy to the lowliest soldier or citizen. He admired Caesar’s graciousness. Gaius promised himself that he would always try to emulate his great-uncle’s virtues - albeit his tiredness and deep slumber that night temporarily relieved him of the ardour of his new vow.

  Caesar turned to Oppius. The general heartily clapped his hand upon his officer’s shoulder and embraced him. Octavius also observed the brief, solemn nod of gratitude he offered his centurion after their embrace. To Oppius the gesture and expression meant more to him than any flattering speech or token honour.

  “Before the battle at Munda Lucius, I wished you by my side. But such is the service you have done me
in bringing my nephew to me, I am glad that you were with him rather than me. You have my gratitude once again, my friend. Caesar will not forget this.”

  There was a history and mutual admiration between the two men that one couldn’t help but be conscious of and intrigued by. A day or so later Octavius discovered how Oppius had been the famed anonymous standard bearer of the Tenth Legion, who had inspired the army to capture the beach against the Britons. Octavius had perhaps been no older than ten when he had first read about the deciding moment in the campaign. The attack was faltering. The Britons still held the beach. The water was deep, the currents strong. A torrent of rain - and missiles - lashed down upon the legions; they steadfastly remained in the relative safety of their transports, furrowing their brows and shaking their heads at the prospect of trying to take the beach. Either from a sense of madness, or ambition, a nameless standard bearer acted - and offered up the legionary’s prayer.

  “Jupiter Greatest and Best, protect this legion, soldiers every one. May my act bring good fortune to us all.”

  To the amazement and condemnation of his comrades, Oppius leapt over the rail of the vessel and plunged into the murky ocean. The gleaming head of the legion’s standard first appeared out of the foaming water. The eagle was the pride of every soldier. When in camp the standard was kept at an altar, surrounded by lamps which burned all through the night; both the eagle and the ground it stood upon were deemed to be sacred. The protection of the standard was every legionary’s duty - and its loss would blight every soldier’s honour. Roscius followed his aquilifer into the surf out of friendship, yet the rest of the Tenth Legion bravely, absurdly, followed the silver eagle - to protect and fight for it. And the eagle seemed to come to life itself as it soared upwards and into the chest of the first enemy cavalryman who opposed the seemingly suicidal standard bearer. The fizzing spray of the ocean blurred his vision so Oppius did not see the second cavalryman attack his flank, yet he heard the sound of him shriek and fall as Roscius’ pilum skewered his stomach. Support was soon mustered around the precious standard though. Witnessing the Tenth’s courage - and success - the Seventh Legion also abandoned their transports and advanced towards the shore. Caesar swiftly ordered reinforcements. By the time the sun lowered on the horizon the sea seemed to be weeping blood, but a beachhead was finally secured. “You captured my respect and loyalty today Oppius, as well as that beach. You have earned my gratitude - and a promotion,” the enigmatic General remarked to his new officer in a private meeting that evening. Reciprocated respect, loyalty and gratitude would be further earned from that day hence.

  Both men had aged since that night, but Oppius had been a young man at the time. Octavius couldn’t help but notice however the lines and wrinkles in his great-uncle’s visage as Caesar approached and surveyed his nephew. A touching paternity could be seen in Caesar’s fond expression, which was all the more marked due to the seriousness which had been carved into his demeanour of late. Tears glistened in his eyes, but fell not. For once he could be Julius again, not “Caesar”. He beamed - cherishingly, happily, memorably. Octavius smiled back and his apprehension and aching limbs vanished into the ether. Although he was conscious of wanting to appear manly, Roman, he couldn’t help but feel the urge to run to his uncle and bury his head in his chest. As Caesar proposed to speak to Octavius and opened his arms to fulfil this desire, a figure and voice intruded upon their familial reunion.

  “I came as soon as I heard. It seems you have a Caesar’s determination and luck, Octavius,” the voice, alien to Octavius yet over-familiar, expressed. The soldier’s warmth and flattery were intended more for his general’s ears than the boy’s however.

  “Octavius, this is Mark Antony,” Caesar cordially remarked. Although irked a little by his lieutenant’s intrusion upon his private moment with his nephew, Julius was a practiced enough actor to be able not to show his displeasure.

  The celebrated soldier’s forehead was smooth and broad. The lines of a strong and square jaw were softened by a well-kept beard. A short-sleeved tunic showed off his muscular biceps, seemingly hewn from bronze. Not without some credence Antony claimed descent from Anton, a son of Hercules - and from his build and soldierly virtues few people found cause to argue the point against his supposed bloodline. His chestnut brown eyes sparkled with masculine charm and good humour, or wine. His glossy black hair was artfully brushed upon his head in a perfectly formed centre parting. A large spatha (cavalry sword) hung down from his left side, its gold-plated guard and pommel encrusted with semi-precious stones.

  Antony had not fought at Munda. He had been in Rome. After hearing of Caesar’s decisive victory though he had sped like winged Mercury to the dictator’s side to congratulate him and share in the jubilant mood of the army. The Civil War was finally over. The soldier had been all too pleased to vacate Rome, tired and harassed as he was by the constant petitions and the business of office that Caesar had asked him to attend to in his absence. More so though Antony had attended to his mistresses, cronies and vintner.

  “Julius has told me much about you, Gaius,” Mark Antony cheerfully expressed whilst placing a hand on Caesar’s shoulder, as well as Octavius’. It was Antony’s custom to treat Caesar with such familiarity and affection - but on this occasion the lieutenant did so to mark out to the nephew how close he was to his great-uncle. Whether he was conscious of it or not Mark Antony was jealous of the unique bond between Caesar and the youth. His jealousy would grow more pronounced over the next couple of months as the dictator spent more and more time with his nephew.

  “And all of it was good, I can assure you,” Mark Antony added, clapping the slender built adolescent on the back. Caesar’s lieutenant was affable, without ever being as naturally witty or charming as his mentor.

  Octavius raised a corner of his mouth in a gesture towards a smile, but he reciprocated not the soldier’s familiarity and warmth. Indeed if anything Antony’s behaviour reinforced the young stoic’s pre-disposed dislike of the renowned soldier and bacchant. Octavius was familiar with some of Antony’s history. In his youth the pleasure-loving aristocrat had attached himself to Clodius - a self-serving demagogue who had courted the mob and reduced politics to little more than criminality. Antony’s capacity for drinking and womanising was notorious. When he did attend to his duties in the Senate he would often arrive hung-over, or debauched. Vomit rather than words would issue from his mouth when he was due to speak, although Octavius fancied that his oratory would be scarce more eloquent than vomit should it ever be given voice. His retinue was filled with low-born prostitutes and actors - and often at least one wife of a fellow senator. Octavius also disparaged his uncle’s lieutenant, however because he was partly envious of the popular, powerful soldier.

  “And Lucius, it’s good to see you again,” Antony remarked at seeing the centurion, walking up to his old friend and embracing him. “I’ve already arranged some wine and women for you, although you might want to take them in the opposite order,” the carouser added, laughing at his own joke.

  As he looked at him then - and as Octavius thought about Mark Antony now in Apollonia - an expression of suspicion and disdain laced his features. Octavius smiled at recalling Cleanthes’ comment about Antony.

  “I don’t know much about him. But what little I know makes me want to know him even less.”

  *

  Whilst Caesar made preparations to return to Rome - and formulated his tactics to deal with the guerrilla war which would ensue with Sextus Pompey’s remaining forces - the general instructed Roscius to introduce his nephew to military life during their remaining weeks in Spain.

  Firstly the legionary issued the new recruit with a uniform. He was given a linen military tunic, which was longer than his civilian one and reached down past Gaius’ knees. As to the style of the day though Roscius taught the youth how to bunch some of the material up over his military belt - and leave the bottom of the tunic curved as he did so. He was at the same time issued with caliga
e - the tough, leather hob-nailed boot of the Roman legionary.

  Although he seldom wore it over the succeeding weeks (the scorching heat and sheer weight of the garment suppressed the inclination) Octavius was given a mail cuirass formed from hundreds of tiny iron rings. The armour was both strong and flexible and Roscius assured Octavius that the shirt would one day save his life - for it had his own on many occasions, the standard bearer was pleased to confess.

  To top off his uniform Octavius was given a standard legionary’s helmet. The bronze bowl owned a peak at the back to protect the neck and also large protective cheek pieces, designed to leave the ear uncovered so as one could still hear orders. Such was its size - and the youth’s slender head - that, to almost comic effect, Octavius found himself having to continually adjust the helmet, either tilting it backwards to prevent the rim from slanting over his eyes or pushing it forward to stop the bowl from slipping off the back of his head.

  A gladius - with a blade around twenty inches long - and scabbard were next handed to the youth in the quartermaster’s area. The sword felt heavy and unfamiliar in Octavius’ hand, yet the sensation was still prized (and he suitably swished the weapon about that night in his tent, cutting down and slaying invisible foes). Roscius also handed the new recruit a pilum - the lethal javelin of the legions. Octavius felt a tinge of pride as Roscius described how Marius (the legendary consul and general who had also been Caesar’s uncle) had re-designed the weapon. Marius changed the manufacture of the pilum so that the metal between the shaft and point was soft and pliable. Once the pilum was thrown - and lodged into a target - the shaft sagged down and the weapon was rendered useless should the enemy wish to throw it back. So too, should the pilum strike an enemy shield, it was awkward to remove.