“I’m not sure. It’s late.”
“You’re Caesar, you can alter the calendar if needs be to make time. Besides, if you’re to become a politician you need as much practice as possible at screwing people.”
Octavius laughed out loud, the first time he had done so since hearing of Caesar’s death.
“What would I do without you, Marcus?” Octavius then expressed, fraternally patting his companion on the back and getting up to join the revelry.
“Not as much is the answer,” Agrippa replied, good-humouredly.
26.
Antony woke but remained in bed. Despite it being mid-afternoon the consul instructed his attendants to keep the curtains closed. The light hurt his eyes. A couple of candelabras, on either side of his king-size bed, illuminated the chamber. The scent of wine and perfume stained the air. His mistress Tertia - a mime and actress - had long since departed to attend rehearsals. Antony glanced at Caesar’s red leather boots, which sat beside Caesar’s throne in the far corner of the room. He stared forlornly at them, remembering his former general and how his feet were the wrong size for the boots, as he attempted to wear them yester night.
An attendant announced Domitius Enobarbus, a little too loudly for the hung over consul’s liking, and showed his lieutenant in.
“Morning Domitius,” Antony warmly said, “excuse me if I don’t get up. How was your evening?”
“So good that I can barely remember it,” Enorbarbus replied, looking not a little hung-over himself, having attended the lavish and late party.
“That’s the spirit. You deserved a night off – and a night on Lucillia. I take it that’s who you left with?”
“Yes.”
“Did she?-”
“Yes.
“With the?-”
“Yes.”
“Whilst she?-”
“Yes.”
“Say no more. The smile on your face was as wide as her legs I warrant. May the gods bless the daughters of fishmongers. But there was no need for you to be up as early as a fisherman, my friend. Or is there anything urgent to report?”
“Nothing of urgency but I thought you might like to know that Hirtius and Pansa are now on the road to Rome, after staying with Cicero.”
“I hope the fat bastard ate the sanctimonious prude out of house and home. Hirtius and Pansa are even more determined to take up their Consulship after talking to the old man I suspect. They can have their consulships so long as I can have their legions. Can they be bought off?” Mark Antony asked, seemingly as equally concerned with removing bits of spiced mutton from between his teeth as he was with politics.
“Even if they could I fear that that Cicero, using Atticus’ money, could outbid us. They are pro-Senate, partly because they are consuls-elect and will head the Senate. They have little love for Brutus and Cassius, though. If they side with the Senate too much it will only drive the Caesarians towards us I warrant.”
“What’s the latest on securing the Caesarian legions? They served their General well. Is it not natural that they should want to serve under his lieutenant?”
“I’m afraid that their silence is deafening. Balbus and Octavius have been writing to them, too. Some are zealously loyal to Caesar’s name - and Octavius has been self-styling himself as Caesar’s avenger, as well as heir. Others are swallowing his promises of increased pay and fulfilling Caesar’s land grants.”
Mark Antony waved his hand dismissively and replied, “Once the boy has been silenced the legions won’t be so deaf to our advances. Have you heard from Gravius?”
“I have kept him apprised of Octavius’ movements. He has selected his spot where to unleash his ambush. They will make it look like bandits. Lucius Oppius is accompanying the boy, though,” Enobarbus answered, with a hint of caution creeping into his tone.
“Lucius is a good man. Perhaps we should have tried to recruit him from the start. As good a soldier as Oppius is he cannot take on Gravius and his cohort alone, though. Even in a one to one fight with Gravius I’d back our man. Gravius never fails in his missions. His mission is to eliminate the boy. Therefore Gravius will not fail in his mission to eliminate the boy. There, is that not one of your beloved syllogisms? Logic dictates that Octavius is as good as dead. Isn’t that right?” Mark Antony pronounced – and then yawned.
“Not quite,” his friend whispered in reply, unheard.
27.
Dear Atticus,
Octavius is here with me. Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian. He has more names than pubic hairs. His hair is cut short, centurion style, but one thankfully senses he is not cut out for military life. His build is slight. He smiles, but not too broadly or toothily. His eyes often narrow in reflection, or steeliness, but his reserve never manifests itself into rudeness – although I’m not sure if his calmness is not ultimately borne from coldness.
His party, including your friend Cleanthes, arrived this afternoon. Balbus has furnished him with an armed escort – large enough to mark him out as a figure of importance but not so extensive as to provoke the idea that the boy means trouble. Marcus Phillipus introduced us. His followers call him Caesar, but Phillipus does not, so neither do I. I greeted Gaius affably enough but then remarked how I couldn’t attend to him immediately as I had some work to complete. I didn’t wish to instil in the youth that the world revolves around him (a delusion that his great-uncle suffered from). He showed no offence, which I’m not sure if I was pleased with or not.
Lucius Oppius, Marcus Phillipus, Octavius and I had a late supper. Oppius was silent for most of the evening, which speaks volumes. He ate his stuffed quail with satisfaction but he wants to taste blood even more I dare say. Marcus Phillipus sung the praises of both Octavius and yours truly – music for both of our ears. Octavius is respectful and friendly. The youth is engaging in conversation but loves not the sound of his voice over others. We all seemed to be in unspoken agreement not to speak about Caesar or politics. We spoke of literature, history – indeed everything that is of little importance to us of late. Octavius was witty, articulate, charming. He reminds me of a talented actor who has the skill to attune his performance to each individual audience. He reminds me of my younger self – again, I was unsure whether to be pleased about this or not. This conceit resonated all the more when the actor started to deliver my lines – and quote me! Phillipus asked the boy which lesson he most took with him from his reading of philosophy. His reply was thus, “to get on as best we can, with the aid of our own dull wits”. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery – and flattery will get him everywhere.
In short the boy has a sense of style and a sense of humour. I only hope that he has a sense of decency too. He doesn’t wholly trust me – and why should he? – but I will attempt to gain his trust. The last Caesar all but destroyed the Senate. Perhaps, through my influence, this new one may help to restore its authority.
We shall have the day together tomorrow. So I will take leave of you now before sleep blunts my thoughts. Sorry for the brevity of this letter my friend. Let me just say though thank you for the recent loan to finance the restoration of the apartment block I rent out. The structure had become so dangerous that even the rats had abandoned it. Your loans to restore the House of the Senate – and in turn banish any rats there – are similarly appreciated. Finally, but not least of all, thank you for the gift of sending Caecilia to visit. Her company – and culinary skills – have been of great consolation. She was out most of today sketching and did not have the chance to meet our other guests. She has her father’s acumen in judging character though and I’ll be most interested in what she thinks of Octavius, should there be a chance for them to meet. Is he the heir apparent or heir abhorrent?
I shall write again anon dear friend.
Cicero.
*
Dearest Octavia,
Thank you for your letters - and apologies for my tardy reply. Taking on the world is more time consuming than you might expect. We arrived at Cicero’s estat
e this afternoon. There is a simple elegance to the estate, reflecting the character of our host. He is in his sixties but still handsome enough to turn the heads of fifty year old widows. Probing, humorous eyes gleam beneath a pronounced brow. His complexion is a little sallow but when he is animated in conversation, or smiling at a witticism (often his own), his expression enlivens to shave ten years off his age. In this respect Cicero reminds me of Caesar. His dress and diet are austere - yet, unlike Cato, Cicero doesn’t make a song and dance of his simple tastes and stoicism.
I have just come from dinner. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Thankfully we spoke not of politics, although Cicero did drop in one or two barbed comments concerning some of his enemies in Rome. As you yourself explained it has become the fashion in Rome for householders to plant mosaics before their front doors, with a simple welcoming message. Cicero joked how the message outside Fulvia’s house should be, “Beware of the dog!” He also described how our “Master of the Horse cannot even control his frisky wife”.
We also spoke about literature. I complimented him upon his library, to which Cicero sagely replied that: “A home without books is a body without a soul”. I helped to make his evening when the discussion turned to philosophy and I quoted our host. He smiled with such a sense of pleasant surprise - and unaffected gratitude - that the moment made my evening too, I warrant.
Although Cicero is clearly conducting a long term love affair with himself he is healthily self-deprecating and eager to listen as well as speak. I tried to be neither cloying nor distant. Although I wished to impress him I didn’t wish to try too hard. As the evening closed he took me aside and expressed the following: “I am in my old age Gaius – the crown of life, the play’s last act. I have of late mused that what I do from here on in will decide whether my life can be judged a comedy or a tragedy. Yet I now see that it is what we might do from here on in which will decide my fate - and that of Rome.”
Only you - and Cleanthes - can know what his words meant to me, Octavia. I have not taken this path from a sense of destiny, but rather from a sense of duty. To do my duty - to bring harmony to the classes - I must become a synthesis of Caesar and Cicero.
My only sorrow was that Julius - and yourself - were not present this evening. I still miss him. The world seems emptier, lesser, without him. I feel like I am conducting a long term and clandestine love affair with my grief - and the feeling of revenge to which my grief is married.
I miss your company and consolation, too. But I shall be in Rome by the end of the month. You asked in your letter if I am ready to come to Rome. Should we not rather ask, is Rome ready for me?
Gaius.
28.
Octavius reclined on a chair in Cicero’s verdant garden and gazed out over a sumptuous, summery vista. Olive groves, vineyards, and homely stone cottages with wisps of smoke swirling into the air populated the landscape. The smell of freshly-baked bread emanated from the villa. Octavius sat beneath a lime tree. A vermillion sun poured through the branches, sprinkling light across the ground all around him.
“This is one of my favourite views. I come here often. Most people sit here and look back at the villa and admire the architecture. But I prefer to take in nature,” Cicero remarked, similarly looking out upon the lush contours of the view. “It’s as if the landscape has been sculpted by a god for our enjoyment and admiration. There is an intelligence and order to nature which far eclipses the talent of any mortal architect. I believe that we are in possession of a divine spark, Gaius – and when we witness such a scene as this our spark is inspired to burn brighter.”
“All the parts of the world are so made that they could not be better adapted to their use or more beautiful to see,” Octavius replied, quoting his host’s treatise.
“I should thank Cleanthes for extra book sales. You can quote me better than I can.”
“You should rather thank Caesar. Julius furnished me with your works and encouraged me to read them above all others.”
“If only Julius would have listened to me, as well as read my books, perhaps we would not be in the state we are in now. I would you listen to me now, though, Gaius. Your uncle, Pompey and I have all made compromises with ourselves and behaved dishonourably. Our divine sparks have burned darkly upon occasions. When most topics were discussed Socrates liked to argue first on one side and then on the other. But on one subject he maintained a consistent point of view: he declared that the human soul is divine. When it leaves the body, it has the power to take the road back up to heaven; and the better and more decently it has behaved in life, the easier this road will be. You still have the chance to save yourself, Octavius. One cannot save one’s soul - and Rome.”
“You tried.”
“I know, but I failed,” the elder statesman replied, his face etched with sorrow.
Cicero surprised himself by the candour of his confession - and the affection he was developing for the youth. As much as his counsel had been politically motivated he genuinely did not want Octavius to share Caesar’s fate. For once the confident and witty statesman looked sheepish.
“I see so much of myself in you, Octavius. I was far from a robust youth, too. But I thank the gods for my less than perfect constitution, for it encouraged me to remain indoors and exercise my mental faculties. For it is not by muscle, force of speed or dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character and judgement. Despite your adopted name you too, like me, will be considered a new man, as well as a young man, when embarking upon the course of honours. But one does not need to possess a noble name to possess a noble character. Your father, Gaius Octavius, proved that. Gaius was a true servant of the Republic. Even more than Cicero or Caesar you should endeavour to become the man he was becoming, before fate curtailed his destiny. He would have made consul. I would have championed him, as I can you. You do not have to command legions to command respect, Octavius.”
Octavius felt an uncommon affection for Cicero for praising his father so. His reposeful expression dissolved into a fond smile. Later that evening he fancied that history may record that, in the same way that Alexander the Great was tutored by Aristotle, Octavius Caesar was tutored by Marcus Tullius Cicero.
The moment between the two figures was broken as an attendant brought Cicero some bread and olive oil. He placed the plate on the small bronze table which sat between Cicero and his guest.
“A meagre lunch I know - and it is not just because Hirtius has visited and my stores have depleted. Did you ever meet Hirtius, when in the company of Caesar? One should eat to live, not live to eat. But your uncle’s former secretary is a good man. He will make a good consul. He was devoutly loyal to Caesar, too - and you can trust him with your life, Gaius.” Cicero was here tempted to add that Octavius could trust him with his legions also, but that would come in time, the elder statesman hoped. For now, he would just plant certain seeds. In reply Octavius merely gave a nod of his head.
“Certainly you should trust Hirtius above our present consul. Antony looks to the state of his affairs more than the affairs of state. I hear that he’s just taken a female mime for a new mistress. She may keep her mouth shut, but the same can’t be said for her legs I warrant,” Cicero joked.
Octavius smiled, yet again remained enigmatically silent. Cicero would write to Atticus that evening how “the boy is sphinx-like in his responses. He has perhaps read every word and speech I have composed, yet I cannot even read his intentions for tomorrow.”
“But underestimate Antony at your peril. You will not be able to best him alone, Gaius. You will need the help of the Senate.”
Octavius here recalled how Balbus said that the Senate would need his help to subdue Antony, but mentioned it not to his host.
“Even when - and that ‘when’ is currently an ‘if’ - Antony’s consulship ends he will be in a strong position.”
“Nothing is so strongly fortified that it cannot be taken by money,” Octavius calmly replied, again quo
ting from an essay by his companion, “I will win at the odds.”
Cicero was astounded by the youth’s knowledge – and also hubris. Perhaps he is the son of Caesar, rather than Octavius, the republican worried.
*
The bucolic scene strewn before Agrippa on the other side of the estate was equally agreeable. A few woollen clouds ambled across a duck-egg blue sky. The farmland was awash with greens and browns. A goat bleated in the background, in contentment rather than complaint. The sweet scent of dried dates wafted up from the bowl which sat beside him on the bench. But Agrippa noticed not the above as he surveyed the valley beneath him, sketching the scene.
The young woman arched an eyebrow in curiosity, rather than disappointment, at seeing a stranger sitting on the bench she resided upon yesterday as she painted. The girl was dressed in a silk stola, dyed tyrian purple. The colour offset a pair of vivacious blue eyes which could sparkle with both intelligence and humour (a humour which could gently mock others - and herself - but which was never cruel). Her pink full lips were often raised in a smile, which could inspire a similar smile in others. Two blonde curls hung down to frame a sun-kissed face that would be deemed attractive in any age. The rest of her blonde hair was stylishly pinned up on her head. A pair of polished silver earrings, given to her by her father, hung down from her ears but otherwise the girl was unadorned with jewellery or make-up, which was rare considering the fashion of the age. The shimmering dress, which flattered an already enviable figure, reached down to her feet where small, pretty high in-stepped feet wore pretty white silk slippers. She carried her work and utensils herself, having dismissed her over-fussy attendants for the day.
“I am not disturbing you I hope,” the girl sweetly remarked. She smiled amiably - yet also in part humorously, as though knowing already that she would be amused by the stranger. She fancied he was a guest of Cicero’s, a scion of some patrician family. She knew the type. Haughty perhaps; a trait she was not altogether immune to. Privilege would have bred a vulgar arrogance and sense of entitlement. His education would have been expensive but knowledge would have slipped through his fingers like sand.
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