Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Judging from the lack of laughter, I fear I’m failing rather than trying,” Cleanthes replied, giving off the appearance of being amused, rather than intimidated, by the careerist thug.

  “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face in a minute.” Spittle accompanied the reply. Just as much as the money, or amphora of wine, that he intended to extort out of the merchant, the swarthy ringleader wanted now to teach the wiseacre a lesson in respect.

  “No, we’ll rather be laughing behind your back. Now fuck off before I, rather than the wine, give you a sore head,” Oppius commanded upon coming out of the tavern. He had assessed the situation, as well as the odds, immediately. The centurion also subtly and briefly made a fist to indicate to Roscius and Casca that they should refrain from using their swords. Oppius knew that the authorities could turn their backs on a brawl, but they would not turn a blind eye to murder.

  Just as the swarthy docker grimaced and his fingers began to move for the chisel tucked into the back of his belt Oppius’ fist slammed into his face, crunching upon the cartilage of his nose. Once floored the centurion methodically stamped on his groin and then his head, rendering his opponent unconscious.

  Roscius roared as he quickly grabbed an amphora of wine from the wagon and launched it at two oncoming assailants. The roar transformed itself into more of a laugh as the large porcelain missile found its target. “Two birds with one stone,” he would go on to boast later that evening to Casca.

  A pock-marked youth cut off Octavius’ escape route into the tavern and, for a second or so, time stood still as the two adolescents sized each other up. Fear rather than confidence egressed from Octavius however - and the wiry docker sneered at the wine merchant, anticipating victory. He would have done better to anticipate the punch from Agrippa which quite literally wiped the smile off his face. Marcus followed up the blow with two shots to the body, winding his opponent, before an uppercut left the teenage thug slumped upon the ground at the entrance to the inn.

  A girlish scream sliced the air - and was abruptly silenced - as Casca violently grabbed a docker by the hair. He then yanked his head back and - at full-speed - punched the whimpering bully in the throat.

  The more cowardly, or wiser, of the would-be extortionists here decided that they would like to live to fight another day - abandoning their drinking companions and scampering off down the street. Some dragged themselves away, whilst others groaned on the cobble stones around them.

  Agrippa flexed his sore hand. Cleanthes gently shook his head, either in amusement or disapproval. Roscius and Casca grinned to each other, having visibly enjoyed the brawl. Octavius masked his feelings of shame and inadequacy. Oppius scowled, thinking that they had drawn attention to themselves. He would not now get the chance to taste Tarentum’s wine - or women. If he smelled fish tonight, it would be because of the garum he sourly joked.

  The sun blazed down over the wagon containing the party and several casks of wine - or vinegar as Casca called, or rather condemned, it. Tarentum was behind then, the outskirts of Puteoli before them. The languid heat inspired torpor in the group but Casca finally spoke up and addressed his comrades.

  “This silence is deafening. Cleanthes, Gaius tells me that you used to be a poet. Want to keep us awake, or send us to sleep? Do you remember any of your verses?”

  “Poems are like old lovers Tiro, some you remember – those with good lines and that were attractive enough to make your friends jealous. But most one remembers to forget,” the tutor replied, smiling and squinting in the afternoon sun.

  “Why don’t you let one of your old lovers come back to haunt you, or us even, now? As long as you don’t bore the horses to sleep you can’t do any harm,” Agrippa asserted whilst using a sharpening stone upon the edge of his gladius.

  “There is a poet in all of us so I’d be happy to let others have the floor, but as I’ve read enough philosophy to know never to argue with someone who is holding a sword, I’ll oblige you. Apologies if my memory proves as rusty as my performance but this humble offering is called Ode to Indifference.

  “Our summer fruit, massaging ray;

  Warmth can Indifference display,

  For Carefree’s platitudes

  A Platonic attitude.

  He shrugs outside Revenge’s fray.

  Too frothy is the blood at birth,

  Age its own carelessness unearths.

  Shine your light upon me

  Passionate Apathy

  In youth’s hollows; now show your worth.

  Oh that I may drink from your cup

  When down desired pick me up.

  Of Sisyphus they laugh

  And Tantalus they starve

  But let us from thy harvest sup,

  Those who the gods have played jokes on,

  Those fathers who their sons poison

  But do not lend the cure.

  Let me this night procure

  The punch line, antidote; un-con

  Life by not falling for its bait

  Like an animal that can’t wait

  To fall into the pit.

  Oh Indifference fit

  Into my soul, despair placate.”

  The party clapped and Cleanthes performed a mock bow.

  “How was the work received?” Agrippa enquired.

  “Ironically, indifferently,” was the reply.

  “There was a time when poetry would flow out of Caesar,” Oppius pensively exclaimed, “a conceit or line would come to him and Balbus would find himself having to transcribe odes and epigrams beneath official legislation. Meetings would be topped or tailed with Caesar and Marcus Brutus trading quotes from Homer. But I look forward now to trading blows with Brutus - and skewering the bastard.”

  Octavius barely heard Cleanthes or Oppius though as he wistfully surveyed the fertile lines of the landscape and remembered Briseis - and his own attempts at poetry in her honour. He pictured lying next to her in bed, their sweat-glazed limbs entwined. He nuzzled her, their fingers laced together. He whispered the words, like kisses, in her ears,

  “I want to wake up

  To the dream of you.

  Your head upon my chest

  As the sun pours through

  Our room, warm with love –

  Sweet from words expressed.

  Your eyes alight with fun

  And the thrill of my caress.”

  But even before the news of Caesar’s death had annulled Octavius of his desire and any commitment he felt he might own towards the serving girl, Octavius had become philosophical, or cynical, in regards to the relationship. Cleanthes was right; it was lust rather than love. He would now be married to his duty, cause. Women would be but a welcome distraction, to be enjoyed like a fine wine or good play. Romantic love was chimerical. Agrippa and Cleanthes were worth a thousand serving girls.

  “It was worth getting up in the morning

  If the day held her mien -

  I would wake to a dream.

  Now, when I am not asleep, I’m yawning.

  She aroused me and gave my life a point.

  The clouds would blow away

  Each time her hips would sway.

  We belonged, like a ball and socket joint.

  But what when her peaks have been mounted, pray

  What when the zenith’s seen?

  We wake up to the dream;

  ‘Tis better to chase than to seize the day.”

  “How far till we get to the villa?” Agrippa asked, snapping Octavius out of his reverie.

  “You’ll probably routinely ask that question another two times before we arrive, if that’s any indicator. We’ll get there when we get there,” Oppius replied.

  “I just hope that Balbus has been visited by some genuine wine merchants of late. The piss we’re drinking is as sour as an aged drab’s –”

  “Thank you Tiro, for proving my point,” Cleanthes chipped in, cutting off the sentence.

/>   “Uh?” the veteran responded, scrunching up his face in slight bewilderment.

  “There is indeed a poet in every one of us.”

  The six friends lazily smirked - and one of the horses whinnied - in the glistering light as the wagon crossed into the verdant pasture of Puteoli, the first step of their long journey almost over.

  23.

  The varnish of his tan concealed the grain of his years. Various papers littered a large cedar wood desk, inlaid with tortoiseshell. Four ornate bronze lions at the feet of the desk surveyed all. Cornelius Balbus composed letter after letter to loyal and wavering Caesarians (clients, centurions, senators, merchants). At present Balbus was drafting a letter to a particularly god-fearing and superstitious client.

  “...Nature abhorred the unnatural act. After the Ides lightening struck the dockyards. Winds moaned through the capital for days, uprooting trees and houses alike. Dogs could be heard howling throughout the night outside the house of the Pontifex Maximus … There is still a Caesarian cause. There is still a Caesar…”

  Balbus carried on writing, propaganda oozing from his pen like honey from a hive, but his thoughts also turned to this new Caesar again. The secretary recalled Julius’ comments about the boy.

  “He is intelligent without being conceited, confident without being arrogant. He’s aware that the gods gave him two ears and one mouth - and knows to use the former twice as much as the latter ... he sees how things are and how they should be - and I warrant he’ll learn how to bridge the distances between those two peaks … his tutors speak well of him. It’s clear he is more of a Cicero than Scipio but ultimately he should become a statesman, not general. I do not want Octavius to spend his life in the saddle on campaign, replicating the glory-hunting of his great-uncle … he has but asked one favour of Caesar - and that was to intercede on his friend’s behalf to release this Marcus Agrippa’s brother … Should anything happen to me Cornelius, I want you to act as Octavius’ secretary - and serve him as loyally and adroitly as you have me old friend.”

  “You are going to announce him as your heir?”

  “Not publicly. But I have altered my will accordingly.”

  “And your son by Cleopatra?”

  “He will be provided for, but his mother is too much like his father to be wholly trusted. She can be Queen of Egypt for as long as her immortality lasts, but she’ll not get her claws into Rome.”

  “And what of Brutus? You once imagined that he would take your place as the First Man of Rome.”

  “I love Marcus as if he were my own. But he longs for a past that never existed in the first place. I want the future to eclipse the past, not be hampered by it. Octavius is the future.”

  “Should dame fortune cheat on her favourite paramour - and something happens to Caesar - I promise to serve him faithfully, Julius.”

  “Thank you, Cornelius. And I will make good on my promise to make you Rome’s first foreign-born consul old friend. It’ll be worth it just to see the look upon the faces of the old men when the new man is announced.”

  An attendant knocked and then entered the secretary’s study.

  “Master, Caesar is here.”

  For a sublime moment or two Cornelius believed that his old master had returned - after all, hadn’t Balbus propagated the idea of Julius’ divinity himself in various proclamations? But reason duly took hold.

  “Time to embrace the future,” the politic secretary remarked to himself, and went out to greet his guests.

  *

  “Caesar.”

  Octavius had grown attuned to flattery over the years but still his new name did not chime quite right. The secretary descended the steps of his villa with outstretched arms. Octavius removed his sun hat and courteously bowed to his host.

  “Oppius, Roscius. I wish the circumstances were different but it is good to see you both again, nevertheless. Tiro, I have arranged to have you quartered near the wine cellar. You must be Cleanthes? Atticus speaks highly of you. My library is open to you.”

  “I hope that doesn’t preclude me from sharing the wine cellar with Casca, though.”

  “No, indeed. Well said. And you must be Marcus Agrippa? Oppius tells me you handle both your drink and a bow well.”

  “But not at the same time, unfortunately.”

  Balbus remarked how his house was open to all his guests as an army of servants appeared from nowhere and attended to the party’s belongings. Cleanthes would later remark to Agrippa whether the secretary employed a servant whose sole task it was to keep his tongue oiled, such were the compliments that dripped from it.

  “We have much to discuss my friends, but such things will wait till morning. Tonight you should rest, unless you would like the wine cellar opened up to you this evening, Tiro? The serving girls may well open up to you too, if you ask nicely, Roscius. Caesar, both your mother and step-father are staying with me. Would you like me to send for them?”

  “Thank you Cornelius, for everything,” Octavius replied, expressing gratitude not just for the hospitality.

  *

  The two loyal Caesarians reclined over couches around the fire in Balbus’ triclinium. Trophies and curiosities from the four corners of the known world decorated the walls. A sculpture of Odysseus, which for once Atticus was the under bidder on, stood imperiously in the centre of the chamber. A statue of Caesar (which Atticus would have happily been the under bidder on) next to the mantle also naturally attracted one’s attention.

  “So, Lucius, what do you think of the boy?”

  “He growing up and growing on me. But that still may not be enough for what lies ahead.”

  “I understand that you encouraged him to lead the Apollonian legions to Rome after Julius’ murder. Nothing good could have come from that,” Balbus remarked, reprovingly.

  “I know. I was angry. I just wanted vengeance,” Oppius replied, feeling added guilt in that he had also persuaded Agrippa to encourage Octavius to lead the legions to Rome.

  “The boy felt the same I warrant, but he did not allow his passions to cloud his judgement. Also, I have spoken to Marcus Phillipus. He implored Gaius not to take the name of Caesar and claim his inheritance. Yet the boy has proved brave and ambitious. So we have intelligence, courage and ambition. If Gaius has inherited some of Julius’ blind luck then we may well win back Rome.”

  *

  “We defy augury,” Octavius replied after hearing how his mother had consulted a soothsayer as to her son’s future. He predicted dark times.

  “Would you not be counselled by your mother, or your step-father, instead of a soothsayer then?” Marcus Phillipus asked.

  Balbus had provided the family with the guest property on his estate. Gaius, Atia and Marcus Phillipus greeted each other with warmth and tears. They sat down to eat as if it were dinner time back in Apollonia. But once the meal was finished and Balbus’ attendants had disappeared, Marcus Phillipus addressed Octavius’ fate.

  “Your counsel is always welcome, as long as you are aware that I will keep my own counsel too. I love you both dearly but the times call for your son to become a man. I am aware that Antony will view me as a threat for claiming my inheritance. I am aware that the libertores will view me with suspicion, at best. The Republicans in the Senate will look upon the new Caesar with contempt, or be dismissive of me. The Caesarians may be harder to win over than anyone else. Yet I am spurred on by Caesar’s faith in me. You did not question his judgement when he was alive, not once. Yet you question his judgement now?” Octavius exclaimed, staring at his parents with a certain amount of disappointment and chastisement.

  “We cannot protect you when you go to Rome,” Marcus Phillipus warned.

  “When I go to Rome, it should be others who should look to be protected,” Octavius calmly replied, the long shadow caused by Caesar’s statue darkened the youth’s already brooding looks.

  “Mark Antony will not give up your inheritance easily.”

  “I know, but in defying my wishes he
will also be defying the wishes of Caesar, which will lose him support with the Caesarians.”

  Marcus Phillipus smiled, admiring Octavius’ politic philosophy. Like Julius, he had considered everything. Like Julius, he would not alter his course once his mind was set.

  “At least promise me that you will meet with Cicero before you venture to Rome.”

  “I give you my word,” Octavius solemnly replied.

  “Then I will give you my support.”

  Atia was now as resigned as her husband from dissuading Octavius from his course. Tears welled in her eyes again.

  “You will always be my sweet-natured boy with his head in a book, who sometimes needs his mother to nurse him in my eyes.”

  “I just hope that I can still sometimes see me as such,” Octavius uttered as he got up, clasped his mother by the hand and sweetly kissed her on the forehead.

  “I love you so much.”

  “I’m pleased to see that you have as great taste in sons as you do dresses, mother,” Octavius replied, eyes glistening too.

  Atia let out a laugh-cum-sob and the family continued to enjoy their evening together.

  24.

  A couple of braziers flanked Marcus Brutus, flames tasting the salty air. He had asked for his desk to be brought out onto the balcony of his coastal villa. The poetic vista consoled him not, though. He dismissed his attendants, desiring solitude. Porcia was asleep. The russet of dusk had bled into the sable evening. Brutus tilted his head back to drain the last of the undiluted wine and as he did so he caught sight of the Northern Star. Julius had once described himself as being as constant as the Northern Star. Perhaps the boast was closer to the truth than a conceit the praetor mused, for without Caesar to guide it Rome was a rudderless ship - in a storm. The Senate steered it not, fractured and scared as it was. The people were divided, too. Some were distrustful of the Senate. Some recognised the growing tyranny of Antony. The legions marched not under one standard. Was the choice a civil war or Antony ruling by the sword? Or how long would it be before the smell of fear and the tremors of division were felt in Gaul - and an heir to Vercingetorix attacked? Have I, in murdering Caesar, brought about that which I strove to prevent? - Tyranny and the downfall of Rome. Did I spare the wrong consul?