Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  People often criticised Caesar’s lieutenant for his vices and profligacy but his debts were due to his generosity, Enobarbus could argue. He smiled, relieving the tension in his habitually serious-looking countenance, as he recalled the incident with the steward. Antony had ordered that a sum of two hundred and fifty thousand drachmas, or a decies, be presented to a centurion to accompany his promotion. His steward was astonished at his master’s liberality, believing that Antony was underestimating the size of the gift. In order to subtly inform his master of the extent of the sum the steward decided to place the amount upon the table before him. Aware of the steward’s ploy, Antony decided to further shock his servant and reward his centurion. “I thought a decies amounted to more than that. This is just a trifle: you had better double it!”

  Antony was generous with his time and energy though, as well as with his money. He often exercised with his men or sat with them at the mess table, happily sharing a joke or amphora of wine with them. So too the arch-seducer would often play Cupid, rather than Dionysus, and devote himself to the affairs of his friends. Enobarbus had lost his own virginity thanks to the advice and encouragement of his commanding officer.

  Yet more than the delights of love Enobarbus was conscious of being indebted to Antony for his very life. Alesia. Enobarbus and his cohort were fighting on the outer rim of the ramparts, repelling the relief force which had arrived to support Vercingetorix’s besieged army. The fighting was as ferocious as it was unrelenting. An arrow pierced Enobarbus’ left shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Before he could recover a giant, flame-haired Gaul stood over him, his axe strewn with Roman gore. His blood-curdling scream, emitted as he raised the terrifying weapon above his head in preparation to bury it into the Roman, was suddenly drowned out by the tamp of a cavalry horse. At full gallop Antony propelled himself off his grey gelding and floored Enobarbus’ assailant. With little use or desire to emit a similar barbaric howl, Antony first plunged his cavalry sword into his enemy’s stomach - and then, with swiftness matching ruthlessness, chopped off his head with a single blow. The timely arrival of Antony proved not to just save Enobarbus’ life but it inspired the legionaries fighting around him as well as diminishing the ardour of any Gaul who witnessed the fall of their formerly head-strong champion.

  With the arrowhead still lodged in his shoulder Enobarbus fought on that day. Antony noted the young man’s bravery and transferred him onto his staff. Such was the industry of his new officer, in military and clerical matters alike, that Antony suppressed the urge to praise the youth in Caesar’s presence, for fear that his general might poach him for his own staff. Enobarbus eventually became aware of this situation and was content to remain in Antony’s employment and subdue any ambitious urge he might have in relation to being promoted to Caesar’s inner circle. He owed a debt of gratitude and loyalty towards Antony. Moreover Enobarbus rightly reasoned that both he and Caesar’s lieutenant had time on their side and would be well placed when someone would succeed their general.

  As much as Enobarbus admired Antony - and as deep as the bonds of friendship reached - Enobarbus wasn’t so partisan as to be blind to the consul’s faults. Pleasure too often took precedent over duty, he was too easily swayed by women and he could be at the very least lazy - and at worst inept - when it came to the details and demands of political office.

  Yet in the same way that the loyal lieutenant could forgive Antony’s faults in light of his virtues, so too he now buried his feelings of unease in the name of duty - in regards to Caesar’s nephew. Enobarbus had not known Caesar personally, but he had admired his courage and progressive reforms in relation to Rome and its army. Enobarbus had served Caesar well, serving under Antony, towards the end of his campaign in Gaul and throughout the civil war. It seemed now strange at best - at worst dishonourable - that he should be ordering the murder of Caesar’s innocent nephew and lawful heir.

  Four legs of salted pork glowed and turned above the campfire. Gravius - and his chosen men - always ate well. Enshrouded in semi-darkness Enobarbus intruded upon half a dozen or so legionaries who sat with their famous, or infamous, centurion. With a brief and subtle nod of his head he instructed Gravius to dismiss his men.

  “Leave us,” the officer, who was awarded his rank despite not being able to read, barked. Although their stomachs grumbled at the order the legionaries protested not and vacated the campfire.

  Gravius would boast that he was the first man into battle, the first man over the wall and the first man into bed. He joked that he had raped more women than Zeus and Apollo combined. Both his boasts and jokes though were often true. Enobarbus had encountered soldiers before who enjoyed fighting (partly because it was the only thing that they felt that they were any good at in life) but Gravius seemed to take things one step further - he seemed to enjoy killing, to the point of it being an addiction. Gravius and his cohort of chosen men were often frowned upon by other soldiers in the camp, yet at heart they recognised their value. They were the first to volunteer to stand in the shield wall, they fought with a savagery that had even made the barbarian Britons turn and run - and Gravius and his cohort never needed to be ordered twice in regards to executing prisoners or hostages, women and children included. War breeds necessary evils.

  Gravius, ignoring the formalities of address and rank, remained seated upon his makeshift throne as Enobarbus stood before him. His visage had won more fights than fair hearts Enobarbus judged, albeit he kept the judgement to himself. His powerful arms and torso were tattooed with various scars, collected from all four corners of Rome’s dominions. Enobarbus liked to think that he was afeared of no man, but could Gravius be described as human? Those that did not regard him as a wild animal superstitiously believed him to be the son of Mars, sent by the gods to wreak vengeance on Rome’s enemies. The only thing that could kill Gravius was Gravius, the legion judged.

  “I hope your purse is fuller than this moon, should you want something,” the Sicilian centurion expressed, his voice as rough as gravel, smugly grinning to himself at Antony having to lower himself and employ his cohort for more mercenary work. Yet Gravius had no qualms about getting his hands dirty in order for the consul to keep his clean.

  “You’ll be well paid, double the going rate.”

  Gravius grunted with satisfaction, or indifference. In truth one man’s life, or death rather, was worth as much as another’s, he had long since considered.

  “Why so much?” the centurion replied, curious rather than suspicious.

  “There will be twice the number of people to kill.”

  Gravius smirked, salivating as much at the prospect of the fight as he was at the fatty joints of pork spitting and roasting before his psychotic aspect.

  Enobarbus went on to list some of the requirements of the mission. The centurion would need to enlist at least thirty of his most trusted and capable men for the job. They would also need to be ready to march in the next day or so - and equip themselves with non-military issue weapons and clothing.

  “Where are we heading?” Gravius finally asked, after emptying his throat of phlegm - his eyes, one jaundiced, one bloodshot, unnaturally glinting in the camp fire.

  “Puteoli,” Enobarbus replied, repulsed by the nefarious soldier - but at the same time reassured that he had the right man for the job. As mixed as his feelings might be towards the fact, Enobarbus knew that Caesar’s nephew was now as good as dead.

  20.

  The night sky appeared encrusted with diamonds and the ruby red lights of Brundisium’s harbour pulsed in the distance. After spying the port on the horizon Oppius instructed the captain of the vessel to alter course. So as not to advertise their arrival on the mainland they would make their landing along the coast, at a quiet beach that he knew of near Lupiae. Money - and the implied threat of repercussions should they speak of their passengers - purchased the silence of the captain and crew.

  The crossing had passed without incident, save for the minor storm as evening descen
ded. In a rare fit of superstition, recalling the nightmarish squall during his voyage to Spain, Octavius retreated below deck. He locked himself in his cabin and prayed to Neptune and Venus to spare the ship.

  With the merchant vessel unable to venture any closer, for fear of encountering shallow waters, the party clambered into the ship’s two lifeboats and rowed to shore. The foaming water slurped as the crafts kissed the shingled beach. Roscius was the first to leap out of one of the boats, relieved to regain the familiarity of land. The sturdy legionary even stamped his feet, in reassurance or even happiness, at the sensation.

  Octavius pulled his cloak around him in the blustering wind. His eyes shone in the moonlight and scanned the cliff-top for witnesses to the suspicious party coming ashore.

  Oppius, Agrippa, Casca and Cleanthes immediately commenced unloading their baggage and provisions. Weapons were distributed and worn, but concealed. Oppius reminded the group that they should now consider themselves wine merchants - and act accordingly. Suspecting that Brundisium would be populated by various agents - and perhaps even assassins - Oppius would call upon an ex-legionary comrade, who had once served in his cohort, to provide shelter for the evening.

  Come the morning, Roscius and Cleanthes would journey into town and purchase a couple of horses and a wagon, as well as a few casks of wine, to authenticate their disguise. By tomorrow afternoon they would safely and anonymously be on their way to Puteoli, where they would call on Balbus and plan their next move.

  21.

  Puteoli.

  The buttery rays of the sun spread themselves over the villa and well attended gardens. Mayflowers speckled and scented the air. Wood-finches hopped from branch to branch on the various birch and fruit trees which seemed to be unfolding their limbs in the increasingly vernal climate.

  Yet, rather than mining pleasure from the scene outside his window, Marcus Tullius Cicero sat with his head in his hands at his rosewood desk. His fingers stained with ink, his skin sallow with age, he read over his latest letter to his life-long confidante.

  “Dear Atticus,

  What we want is a leader, someone to lend moral weight. Some of the people might well suggest me, but I am too old. I can mentor, but not lead. My agents have reported on potential support for Sextus Pompey. He is starting to make a name for himself, aside from the one he inherited. But we need an army of men, rather than ships, to reinstate the Republic. And I’d rather not swap a tyrant for a pirate.

  No, our energies and capital must be directed towards Brutus. He will venture to Greece, raising both funds and an army (Cassius will do the same elsewhere). I fear that Antony’s pockets are deeper and his forces greater however. Again, we have too easily surrendered Rome to the enemy. History teaches us that history repeats itself.

  Civil war is certain, as sure as the changing season. I suspect that the first blood will be spilled in Gaul. Decimus will not hand over his troops or governance to Antony, out of pride as much as principle. I am confident that I can persuade Hirtius and Pansa, once they have obtained office, to side with the Senate over Antony. The consuls-elect have little love for Antony. But will our combined forces be strong enough? I’m hoping that Gaul will prove to be the beginning and the end of the bloodshed. But I fear that the impending conflict will touch Puteoli, Greece and edge of the map soon enough. When Rome sneezes, the world gets a cold.

  If things stay the way they seem to be now, I find no joy in the Ides of March...

  Marcus Phillipus visited yesterday, bringing news that I should expect a second visitor in the near future. The boy has requested to see me. I have of course assented to his request (as tempting as it was to take revenge on Julius through his heir, for how many times did Caesar refuse an audience with Cicero, or childishly keep me waiting?).

  Phillipus speaks well of the boy - and not just because, apparently, the boy speaks well of me.

  I am still undecided as to how I should play things in relation to Octavius. At present I have more questions than answers. What are his intentions? Will he join, or oppose, Antony? How much can we direct him? How much has Balbus dug his claws into the fresh meat?

  … But all this talk of impending civil war has brought on a headache, as well as heartache. Tell me more of the personal, rather than political. How is Caecilia? Please pass on my gratitude for the recipes. You should be justly proud of her. Should she become as admirable a wife as she is a daughter then I envy her prospective husband. She reminds me a little of Tullia, which is both a curse and a blessing. But I weep for Rome now, rather than my daughter.”

  *

  Cicero averted his attention from the correspondence to the door as it creaked open. His secretary entered, carrying a bowl of porridge, sweetened by a mixture of honey and berries. His complexion was dark, but his expression was bright with intelligence and warmth. Tiro had first entered into service for the famed advocate in his late teens. Cicero, recognising and rewarding the youth’s virtues, decided to educate - and then free - his slave. Upon gaining his freedom though Tiro devoted himself even more to his former master, acting as his secretary and political agent. Indeed, next to Cicero himself, no one loved or admired the statesman more that the perpetually boyish-looking secretary.

  “Is that a grey hair, Tiro?” Cicero exclaimed in mock horror as Tiro placed the bowl of steaming porridge upon his desk.

  “I keep telling myself that it’s a trick of the light, even at night, but I believe it is.” The philosophical secretary had adopted his master’s dry sense of humour, as well as his politics, over the years.

  “I’m tempted to add your grey hair to the list of crimes I’m compiling, to be read out in the Senate when the time is right, that Mark Antony is responsible for.”

  As well as some light lunch for the dyspeptic statesman, prepared according to Caecilia Atticus’ recipe, Tiro placed a pile of letters on the desk for the senator’s attention.

  “Thank you, Tiro. What have our informants got to say for themselves, aside from that of wanting more money for their information?”

  “Antony has bought off his co-consul. Although we may not strictly define Dolabella as Antony’s ally, he will not now provide any source of opposition towards Antony’s legislation and ambitions.”

  “It’s now mathematically impossible for me to think any less of that man,” Cicero flatly exclaimed, his face uniquely screwed up in derision. Tiro knew that the mere mention of Dolabella, Tullia’s dissipated husband, would stir up unhappiness in his master’s heart - but the secretary felt duty bound to report the situation.

  “Balbus has been composing various proclamations, written in Octavius’ name, and posting them up for the legions to see. I believe however that the boy has also been writing his own propaganda. Either he is conceited, or talented. The young Caesar is vowing vengeance for his father’s murder - and rewards for loyalty. From all accounts he has the sympathy and support of Caesar’s legions in Apollonia.”

  “But will they follow him into battle?” Cicero asked, absorbing the information whilst blowing upon his porridge.

  “That depends on how much he will, or can, pay them. We should not forget though that every legionary who serves Octavius serves not Antony.”

  “We will then allow the boy to have his toy soldiers. Meddle not in his recruitment drive. Indeed I might even encourage the youth to recruit an army, especially if we can in turn recruit him to our cause.”

  “I’ll be curious to know what you think of him after his visit. I wonder what Caesar saw in the youth, to name him as his heir?”

  “Hopefully it wasn’t himself,” the statesman replied, wincing slightly at the thought rather than at the taste of his lunch.

  22.

  A bedraggled line of wagons, traders, immigrants and would-be labourers snaked into the sea-port town of Tarentum. Oppius gave a small bribe to the official at the gate of the walled city and the wine merchants were duly allowed in without any fuss. From Lupiae they had first travelled to Rudiae - and then
onto Uria. The Appian Way now brought them to the bustling port of Tarentum. The air reeked of garum, the ubiquitous food stuff of Rome and her dominions. Made from sardines, spiced in all manner of ways, the fish paste lubricated trade in the Mediterranean as much as wine and olive oil. Octavius turned his nose up at the pungent stench, his eyes almost watering, whilst Roscius and Casca breathed in the moreish aroma as if it were a fine bouquet.

  The unassuming party of merchants made their way to the nearest tavern, heavy-legged and empty-stomached. Their journey had been incident free, until now. Whilst Oppius and Roscius ventured inside to inquire about lodgings for the night, the rest of the group were suddenly approached by a dozen men, as dubious in character as they were in appearance. The stale smell of wine on their breath even overpowered that of the garum. The self-appointed leader of the band of men addressed Cleanthes.

  “You’re new to Tarentum my friend, no?”

  “Yes, although such is the hospitable atmosphere I’ll definitely be visiting again,” the tutor answered. Casca rolled his eyes in exasperation at the tutor’s ability to misjudge his audience with his sarcasm.

  “So you don’t know about the toll charge?”

  “I am sure that I don’t own the monopoly on ignorance in this place, but no.”

  The rest of the men, out of work dockers, formed a circle around the outnumbered wine merchants. Casca snorted, either in derision or resignation at the prospective brawl. Agrippa’s left leg began to switch, either in nervousness or excitement. Octavius edged behind the wagon, forming the intention to race inside of the tavern and hide should a fight break out.