Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  Agrippa turned around and smiled when seeing the young woman before him.

  “My hope is that you do disturb me,” he charmingly replied, friendliness and good humour infused in his tone.

  Although retaining her poise she thought him handsome - and unlike most young aristocrats she had encountered. His build was muscular, soldierly. His nose was broad - a fine Roman nose. His hair was short, his tunic plain. Perhaps he wasn’t a patrician, she thought. Although he was still a man she judged, interested in one thing in a woman - or two, once he discovered how wealthy her father was.

  Caecilia Attica walked over to the bench. Agrippa first politely bowed and then considerately brushed the bench, before the young lady sat down upon it next to him.

  “My name is Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.” He continued to grin, almost like a fool, as he spoke. “What’s yours?”

  “A strange gentleman who asks for a lady’s name and gets what he wants may soon ask more from the lady, so I will leave you ignorant for now if I may?” Attica satirically replied.

  “You may. I’m no stranger to being ignorant. It’s fine.”

  Attica was amused at the refreshingly self-deprecating reply. The two strangers momentarily gazed at each other with wonderment and something else.

  “Now, may I ask something else of you? It’s a woman’s prerogative to be selfish and demanding, no?”

  “I thought such a prerogative belonged to a wife rather than just a woman, but you may.”

  Her accent and burnished complexion bespoke of a certain foreignness Agrippa thought to himself. Perhaps she was part Greek. Her dress both captured and reflected the saffron light, like her eyes.

  “May I see what you are working on?”

  “Certainly. Though try not to be as critical as a wife.”

  His manner seemed uncommonly warm and honest, albeit his wit belied a nobleman’s education. She could not recall ever having heard the name Agrippa before – and her father knew everyone who was worth knowing she believed.

  Attica raised her eyebrow at seeing the half-finished work. Again this Agrippa confounded any pre-conceptions she had about him. The picture was indeed of the view, although his talent was akin to that of an architect rather than artist. He had captured the form of the landscape, if not its beauty. Yet she was intrigued to see that Agrippa had added to the landscape by inserting an aqueduct and irrigation system onto the plains.

  “As informed as your drawing of the aqueduct is, I fear it has ruined the rest of the picture – and will ruin the view before us if constructed.”

  “The aqueduct is intended to save rather than ruin the valley. The greens will be greener, the browns will be browner. The soil will also be richer, as well as the colours, if irrigated properly. Fresh water will improve the quality of life of the workers, as well as the crops. It should not just be the province of the augurs to look to the future. Aqueducts, sewers and roads should be looked at - as well as the entrails of pigeons and gulls.”

  Attica scrutinised the stranger, as if he were the work of art that she was unsure of how much to admire or not - both for its accomplishments and originality. She could not quite work him out, both in terms of where he had come from and where he was going.

  “So are you a guest of Cicero’s, or an architect with a bad sense of direction?”

  “I’m a guest in a manner of speaking. I am a companion of Caesar’s. And are you too a guest of Cicero’s, or a lost wife looking for her husband to nag?”

  “I’m the former. If I were a wife I dare say that my husband would be searching for me, not I him. For if I needed to nag him I’d as soon as lose him. But tell me, how close are you to the new Caesar?”

  “Close enough to ask you to join us both for dinner this evening. Would you like to?” Agrippa asked, not without a little pride - desiring to impress the sophisticated and beautiful woman with his connection to Octavius. He smiled, with hope gleaming from his aspect. He had only admired such aristocratic women from afar before but here he was, close enough to smell her perfume and hear the rustle of her silk dress.

  “No, I would not like to have dinner with Gaius Julius Caesar this evening,” the woman exclaimed, shaking her head. Agrippa’s smile immediately faltered. He lowered his gaze. “But I would like to have dinner with you, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa”. Immediately the smile returned and he looked the remarkable girl in the eye, his expression as bright as his heart.

  *

  After dinner Octavius returned to the garden and sat upon the same chair that he had occupied that afternoon. He was accompanied by Cleanthes rather than Cicero now, though. The sky was mauve, the clouds purple, as night settled in. The air was still balmy and sweet with the fragrance of the lime tree that the companions rested under.

  “Cicero said that he bought the estate for the views, rather than the house. I can see why,” Octavius idly exclaimed.

  “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need,” Cleanthes replied, quoting their host’s remark at dinner. “It would be nice to throw in Balbus’ vintner and staff too, however. Are you not tempted to purchase a similar villa, with a library and garden? Lucullus retired to his estate and was content to let Rome be Rome. What is stopping you from leading the good life?”

  “My duty, to Caesar,” Octavius replied, his brow furrowed, his tone as adamantine as his heart. Had grief now wholly manifested itself into revenge? - Cleanthes worryingly thought.

  “And when you have fulfilled your duty, what will you do then? Will you, as when Cincinnatus defeated the Aequi, give up your command and live a quiet life? There are still fields of knowledge for you to plough, Gaius. Or have you set yourself upon this course for your own honour rather than Julius? You may be considered a great man if you achieve your ambition and avenge your father, but perhaps the greater man still is he who can relinquish, rather than retain, power.”

  Octavius listened to his friend in silence, the shadows concealing his brooding expression. He judged his tutor sententious, patronising. He was going to argue that if his father had been murdered – and he was in a position to exact his revenge – would he not do so? So too he was tempted to choke the fine blooms of his tutor’s moral philosophy with the weeds of political philosophy – and quote Caesar. “Sulla was a fool for resigning as dictator when he did.”

  Yet Octavius bested any ire he felt towards his friend and desisted from responding harshly. He knew Cleanthes meant well, but the Gaius of Apollonia was a fond memory. Octavius Caesar was the reality now. Yet it was with the former’s vulnerability and admiration that he turned to his tutor, clasped him on the arm, and expressed: “What will be, will be Cleanthes. Know that I treasure your friendship and wisdom. Please stay with me when we get to Rome. Now more than ever I need someone to remind me that my conscience is more valuable than my fortune. If you wish to retire to your garden again however, I’ll understand.”

  “We used to study history together Octavius. Now we’re in a position to help write it - and someone needs to be here to correct your grammar. As to my garden, I’m far more worried about you getting out of control rather than my weeds,” Cleanthes cordially replied whilst squeezing his pupil affectionately on the shoulder. “Now where is your other companion, who will also hopefully keep you on the straight and narrow? Agrippa is a fine young man and equally fine friend. Don’t think that I don’t know how you often talk together in the evening, going over the day’s events and planning for the future.”

  “He said he had something to do, which could rather well mean he has someone to do,” Octavius remarked, arching his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in a knowing smile.

  “Such is his proclivity to catch the eye of servant girls that this philosopher will consider it wise to always sit next to him at dinner so as to be served well.”

  The two companions here added a chorus of laughter to the nightingale’s evening song.

  *

  Agrippa and Attica had conversed on their bench long in
to the afternoon - about nothing and everything. Attica felt immediately and uncommonly comfortable and content in his company. Agrippa was neither intimidated by her intelligence or sense of humour. Laughter bloomed from her lips as he matched her witticisms with his own. Attica resisted from telling him her name. So many vacuous would-be suitors viewed her as a trophy to be won or conduit to being a client of Atticus’ once they discovered who she was. As charming and gregarious as the girl could be she often felt lonely, isolated. With her father and Cicero alone could she discuss art and politics and be part of a serious or satirical conversation. Her friends were her books. Towards the end of their afternoon together she made Agrippa promise that he would not go back to the house and ask who she was. As tempted as he was to discover more about his captivating companion, Agrippa honoured his promise.

  “Now I must keep my promise and venture back to prepare dinner. Thank you for today, Marcus.”

  “What are you thanking me for?” he replied.

  “Just for you being you - and for letting me be myself, that self who I like to be.”

  She then sweetly walked up to Agrippa, squeezed his hand and stood upon tip-toe to kiss him on the cheek. The stunned and smitten Roman cherished the lingering sensation as the beautiful girl - or was she truly a goddess? - darted back onto the track leading through the woods, her heart skipping, akin to her pretty feet.

  *

  The moon shone with a mellow, erbium-tinged radiance. Stars glistened with pride, like peacocks showing off their plumage. The night air was still warm. The shutters were left open and Agrippa watched sparrows hop from branch to branch on a birch tree outside. Cicero had given Attica use of a guest villa at the southern edge of his estate. Although possessing all manner of staff Attica had cooked and served the meal herself - freshly picked mushrooms in her special sauce followed by spiced lamb. She dismissed all of her attendants for the evening. Not only did she not wish to intimidate Agrippa with her status, but also she didn’t wish to be disturbed (or have one of the staff report back to her father about her guest).

  Attica had changed her stola, yet the dress was equally elegant and the pale blue dye brought out the brilliance of her eyes in a different way. Contrary to fashion she also removed the ivory pins from her hair and long blonde tresses flowed freely over her shoulders and down her back. The conversation similarly flowed freely. More than once Agrippa gave thanks to Octavius for having encouraged him in his study of literature and philosophy. He was familiar with the authors his mystery woman spoke so admiringly of - and when she mentioned Herodotus he duly quoted him, “Of all possessions a friend is the most precious.” Her eyes gleamed with pleasant surprise and the girl shook her head a little, as though the man before her was too good to be true. Agrippa proceeded to talk about his friend a little, recounting a story from their time together in Apollonia.

  “For the most part we just went to visit the famed astrologer Theogenes for a joke. Neither of us is superstitious, thank the gods. His study gave off an air of wisdom, with all manner of scientific apparatus and ancient parchments decorating the chamber. The air of the room - or rather the stench of his garb - also suggested that, although devoting his life to foretelling the future, Theogenes was not the best judge of predicting his bowel movements.”

  Laughter cascaded out of his dinner companion. And her laughter was music to his ears - silvery, sweet, unaffected. Agrippa noticed how her eyes would narrow, yet beam, when he made her laugh or grin - and she would gaze fondly at him as if no one else in the world made her feel like he did or mattered to him like he did (which was indeed the case).

  “His voice was as rough as the wine he gave us. First he interviewed me and I gave him the time, date of my birth and so forth. Theogenes then retreated to another room, where he seemed to work his way through a bottle of wine as well as my horoscope. On his return - and I dare say this may have been the drink talking - he professed to have never seen such a favourable fate before. I was destined for greatness, despite my inability to pay him as handsomely as his more affluent clients. Although I had faith in my scepticism, still I couldn’t help but be happy with my reading. As happy as Gaius was for me though a gloom came over him when the astrologer turned to commence his reading. Although Gaius jested and appeared indifferent he was worried I think that somehow my fate would eclipse his, or similarly that our paths would diverge. Through a combination of teasing and bullying him he finally agreed to the horoscope. Gaius rarely loses his composure but he did that afternoon as he paced up and down with a fixed look of apprehension across his face.”

  “And what was the outcome?” Attica asked, leaning towards him over the table.

  “Theogenes finally came back. The door seemed to take an age to creak open for Octavius. If the wizened astrologer had been intoxicated whilst conducting my reading his sobriety had returned. He stared at Gaius, his mouth agape. He then fell to his knees and pronounced that Gaius would be “the master of the world”. We laughed at the incident afterwards. But then and there, as the old man clasped the hem of Gaius’ tunic and made his pronouncement in all sincerity, we somehow felt the hand of fate upon us.”

  “And will you be a great man, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “In which case you’ll succeed. But, tell me, do you have a philosophy by which you will live this great life?”

  Agrippa paused before answering, enchanted by the way in which the light of the brazier glowed upon her honey coloured skin.

  “Fail to prepare. Prepare to fail,” he smiled and exclaimed, remembering Oppius’ advice. “And do you have a philosophy by which you live your life?”

  Attica gazed at her guest, partly staring into his soul and partly wishing to infuse it.

  “Be kind, for everyone you meet is facing a hard battle,” she replied, embodying loveliness and wisdom - quoting Plato. She was like no other girl he had met. And Agrippa realised that evening - indeed perhaps at the very moment that she uttered those words - that he loved her like no other girl he had ever met, or would meet.

  “Will you be kind now and finally tell me your name?”

  She hesitated, but finally spoke.

  “Caecilia Attica.”

  Agrippa’s eyes briefly widened in surprise but then everything fell into place - her wealth, knowledge of art, her staying with Cicero. Attica looked down, in fear of witnessing the greed and sense of opportunity in Marcus’ eyes that she had observed in others. But as she looked up she bathed in the genuine warmth, good humour, and something else in his aspect. Agrippa had fallen in love with Atticus’ daughter, not dowry. And she knew it.

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  “I’ll make sure that the first aqueduct that I construct runs past your house.”

  Attica but half smiled at the comment, dwelling still on how she might never see him again. He would become a memory, or a dream. Her father had always respected her decision when she did not like the prospective husband who auditioned for her. But would he now respect her choice of someone who he might not consider suitable, both because of Agrippa’s class and political affiliations?

  “You are to venture to Rome, I back to Athens, shortly,” she expressed forlornly. While just before the girl could not take her eyes off her would-be suitor, Attica now averted her glance, for when she looked at him now she saw something, somebody, that might be lost to her. And already it brought her pain.

  “Before this evening Caecilia I often dreamed that I would win fame and fortune for myself, or to help Gaius. But now I wish to do so to be good enough in the eyes of your father - and win you.”

  The girl smiled, but tears began to stream down her cheeks. She sobbed as she spoke and shook her head.

  “No, you don’t understand. I think I love you. You’ve already won me. I don’t want you to now lose me.”

  Agrippa tenderly laced his fingers into hers and stood up. Attica too arose and then buried her head into his chest, crying as she did
so.

  “Fight for me Marcus. Don’t give up on me, us.”

  “I’ll wait for you. Should I fall behind, wait for me,” he replied, his strong arms cradling her.

  “I’ll try.”

  “In which case you’ll succeed.”

  A sob turned itself into a bouquet of laughter. Her face was wet with tears. First Agrippa brushed his thumb over her cheeks. Her slender arms pulled him closer. Their lips met in a sweet, then passionate, then loving kiss.

  29.

  A persistent greasy drizzle had followed the party throughout the morning, but fortunately the skies cleared by the afternoon. The young Caesar stood upon a rostrum in the market town of Casilinum and addressed the crowd - having come straight from the town’s temple, where the young man had displayed sufficient piety. Balbus had pre-arranged some supporters but curiosity and the promise of some Caesar-esque largesse had brought people from their homes to the square. Equites, farmers, soldiers, guild members and civil servants rubbed shoulders alike - along with their wives and children - to see the adopted heir of Julius Caesar. There were already plenty of smiles all round as Balbus had organised for a merchant to lubricate the proceedings with free wine, bread and fresh fruit. Heads bobbed up and down amidst the sea of people to get a better view of the Caesar.

  A welcome breeze cooled Octavius’ flushed features. The sound of the breeze mingled with the whispers which wended their way through the throng. As a soldier’s drills will aid him in the battlefield, Octavius had repeatedly rehearsed his speech to suppress his nerves and narrow any scope for errors. He took a deep breath, like an actor preparing to go on stage, and commenced his address.