Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  “I come not to bury Caesar, but to praise him. I come not to bury Caesar’s reforms, but to save them. And I come not to bury Caesar’s promises, but to keep them.”

  Octavius’ voice was audible and calm. His lungs and temperament would not allow him to bellow. His tunic was plain, but fresh and white, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Balbus had given Octavius one of Julius’ old belts as a talisman.

  “My father once told me that Rome and its riches should not be the preserve of just Romans and the rich. Before my father we had but two classes, the taxed and the taxing. But the peace he won and the reforms he promoted purchased prosperity for all. He knew, through living in the Subura all those years and campaigning alongside good legionaries from all across Italy that, as the builders say, the larger stones do not lie well without the lesser.”

  Balbus’ supporters, planted throughout the crowd, began to nudge their neighbours and nod their heads - but they were not the only ones to do so.

  “How unfair the fate which ordains that those who have the least should add to the treasury of the rich. But that seems to be the fate that the present authorities have in store for us. Taxes are now due to be raised as high as the colonnades on the villas that they are constructing. The only taxes which are due to be rescinded are those imposed by Caesar upon certain luxury goods I have heard. One should be a friend to business, but not to corruption …We must cleanse the augean stables.”

  Heads that formerly nodded in agreement now shook their heads in disappointment after hearing such scandalous proposals.

  “And certain self-interested factions of the Senate justify their actions by claiming that Caesar acted unlawfully in enacting his reforms, so we must now make them null and void. They are wielding their styluses, as they did their daggers against my father, to attack your freedoms and wealth. They hide behind ancient or brand new laws to defend their actions. But should these self-styled optimates, best men, be standing before me now I would not flinch in telling them that the good of the people is the greatest law.”

  Clapping and cheers filled the pause that Octavius here artfully allowed. Cleanthes, watching from the performance from the side of the rostrum, smirked - thinking about the irony of Octavius quoting Cicero to endorse his Caesarian mandate. The tutor also recognised lines from Terence and Plato. Indeed, Cleanthes mused, the only person who he wasn’t quoting was his teacher.

  “Now I can only but hope that I have inherited my father’s political acumen and fortune in war. And I desperately hope that I have inherited his abilities in regards to his conquests over women.”

  The crowd erupted with laughter. Octavius smiled and enjoyed the moment too, yet then raised his hand to silence them. Oppius looked on, impressed, as Octavius started to orchestrate the crowd as Julius had once done so commandingly. Balbus had offered to compose the speech but Octavius merely asked him to read over his own composition - which he edited not. Although youthful in appearance Octavius was projecting confidence and maturity. Cleanthes had coached him a little in regards to his delivery - he sawed not the air with his hands, nor strained his voice - but it seemed he was a natural.

  “But I have inherited my father’s name and the promises he made - both of which I intend to honour. I have inherited my father’s debt, as well as his fortune. His debt to the people of Rome - and I shall see to it that his gardens are bequeathed to the public. And I shall see to it that the gift of three hundred sesterces is paid to every good citizen in Rome, too. And I shall see to it that his promises of land grants to his loyal legions are not revoked.” Octavius turned his head to address a section of the crowd consisting of legionaries and centurions and nodded to them in gratitude and respect. “My father craved not a revolution. Nor do I. He believed in the Republic. As do I. He believed in the providence of the gods. As do I. He believed in tradition and the family. As do I. I stand before you now, not just a servant to my father - but consequently a servant to all of you. For who was it who took from the rich to give to the deserving? Caesar! Who was it who gave thanks and worship to the gods, rather than to the senatorial cartel of the Metelli, Claudii and Brutii? Caesar! And who shed his own blood to win our peace and prosperity? Caesar! And who was it they perniciously accused of being a tyrant, but died being our benefactor?”

  “Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!” was the reply from the crowd. Fists punched the air. One could not be sure if the throng were cheering for the Caesar past or the one who stood before them. Perhaps the lines had become blurred and it was both.

  Though a feeling of anger simmered at the rally for the opponents of Caesar (who if present were wisely quiet), such a mood was eclipsed by a fraternal and celebratory atmosphere. Wine and food continued to be freely distributed. Octavius spent a number of hours listening to the grievances and petitions of a number of his supporters. He took time out to speak to a group of soldiers who had served under Caesar. Cleanthes noted down names and addresses to forward on to Balbus and his clerks - who would write follow-up messages. A widow, not a little charmed by the attractive and well-mannered youth, thanked the young Caesar for his visit to the town. She could not remember the last time that anyone of note had deigned to truly speak and listen to the people. The audience to the scene would later quote Caesar’s response, as he warmly clasped the earnest woman by the hands, “my father once told me that the higher we are placed, the more humbly we should walk.” Balbus had also arranged for Caesar’s heir to have a number of private meetings with key supporters and donors to the Caesarian campaign. For the moderates Octavius trumpeted his new found friendship with Cicero, implying that he would work with the Senate to champion their cause. For the more devout Caesarians however, Octavius expressed himself in more bellicose terms towards the libertores and other enemies.

  Oppius and Roscius spent the afternoon in the company of their fellow soldiers, assuring them of Octavius’ desire for revenge. Akin to his father, Octavius would reward loyalty, too. Neither Antony nor the Senate would match the wages that the young Caesar could and would pay. Most of the centurions ended the afternoon swearing loyalty to Octavius Caesar, in the name of Julius Caesar, and promised to extract similar oaths from their comrades.

  Agrippa and Casca had the far from onerous task of touring the local taverns, both garnering and measuring support for the Caesar. They sometimes just listened to the gossip and wine truth. At other instances they engaged their drinking companions. The responses to the address were favourable. The affluent did not feel that the young Caesar was a populist demagogue, in the vein of a Clodius. He had no intention of stirring the mob to violence, or championing the poor above all other interests. The Senate were living in the past if they thought they could undo all of Caesar’s beneficial reforms and re-establish an oligarchy. Like them, Octavius was a progressive conservative at heart. Yet in the less seemly establishments – which Agrippa and Casca were happily thorough enough to visit as well – the people were equally enthusiastic about the young Caesar. Like his father he had the common touch. He possessed a sense of humour and spoke to them rather than down to them. Although educated his air was that of a tribune rather than a haughty patrician.

  *

  An old friend of Balbus’ and an ardent Caesarian, Valerius Macrinus, accommodated Caesar and his retinue that evening at his estate just outside of town. Gaius, Agrippa, Oppius, Casca and Roscius relaxed in the opulent triclinium over several jugs of Macrinus’ finest vintage. The day - and drinking session - had been long.

  “Today was a great success. To today - and tomorrow!” Agrippa announced, raising his cup and a smile to his friend. He was, like Casca, far more inebriated than his companions, what with them having embraced their duties earlier.

  “Julius would have been proud of you today Gaius,” Oppius then earnestly expressed, using up his ration of compliments for the year, and looking at Octavius with not a little affection and approval. They fleetingly shared a private moment.

  “Thank you.”

  “But d
on’t let the praise go to your head quicker than the wine,” Oppius added, reverting to his disgruntled self - but warmly winking at the boy.

  “To Octavius!” Roscius exclaimed, but before he raised his arm to complete the toast, Oppius stopped him.

  “No, old friend - to Caesar!”

  “To Caesar!” the companions echoed, clinking their cups.

  For once Octavius felt a little uncomfortable in his skin. He smiled and was choked with emotion; he blushed too. He was saved from further discomfort however by Cleanthes re-appearing.

  “Valerius has informed me that the entertainment has arrived.”

  “Please don’t tell me that they’re musicians,” Roscius replied, rolling his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t call them musicians, although you may approve of how they’ll play with your instrument.”

  Valerius Macrinus here entered the room and ushered in a dozen well dressed women of ill-repute.

  “For your entertainment, gentlemen. They’re as fine as Caesar’s speech - and cleaner than your jokes, Roscius,” their host jovially exclaimed.

  All manner of lissom figures - some wearing little more than a smile - sauntered into the triclinium. The glow of the fire shone upon tanned, roseate and black perfumed skin alike. Some giggled, some simpered or appeared sultry as they draped themselves over sofas or encircled their prey.

  Roscius licked his lips at the banquet of flesh sumptuously laid out before him, not knowing which dish to try first. His eyes bulged, as did something else - beneath his tunic - as he thought to himself how much he preferred life on a political campaign as opposed to a military one.

  Tiro Casca gulped as twin sisters sat either side of him and ran their hands up and down his legs. Not knowing how to combat such an assault he decided to surrender to it.

  A sweet-faced girl with startling turquoise eyes and a similarly arresting figure perched herself upon the arm of Octavius’ chair. She wore an elaborate wrap-around silk stola that he quickly figured out was solely held in place by an ivory brooch in between her breasts. The courtesan smiled alluringly as she ran her hand through his short fair hair and stroked his cheek.

  Nearby a strikingly tall Nubian woman sided up to a partly aroused, partly intimidated Cleanthes.

  “And who are you?” she asked, or perhaps demanded, in a husky foreign accent.

  “That’s a good question. And one which I can happily debate with you in the bedroom.”

  The woman at first appeared a little confused by the reply but then shrugged her shoulders and led the stranger off to an adjoining room, nearly pulling Cleanthes’ arm out of its socket as she did so.

  A lithe Egyptian woman caught Oppius’ eye, or vice versa. She reminded him of his long-term lover during Caesar’s Alexandrian campaign. He smiled as he recalled how her legs would wrap around him so tight than not even Hercules himself could have escaped her clutches - not that he would want to, Oppius mused. The fond smile and glint of dark desire upon his face was invitation enough for this new dusky-skinned figure to straddle the handsome Roman on the sofa and sensuously kiss him.

  Agrippa alone resisted the entreaties. He yawned and excused himself from further revelries by citing tiredness, which was indeed the case - albeit not the reason as to why he absented himself. A part of him perhaps wanted to remain and enjoy his host’s hospitality - but yet he was content to retire to his room. Lying upon his bed Agrippa dreamily composed a letter and love poem to Attica, his smile as wide as any of his companions.

  30.

  Grey clouds, like slats, were tiled across the sky. The rally in Allifae had been, akin to Casilinum, a success. Indeed the number of supporters had been greater as news of Caesar’s arrival preceded him and people from the countryside as well as the town came out to see the heir. Word was spreading. Seeds were being sown - and taking root. The Appian Way was again unfurled before them, its flagstones spotted with rain. Dense woodland flanked the road on either side.

  Oppius and Roscius set the pace at the head of the party, along with a quartet of soldiers. The rest of Balbus’ men, thirty strong in total, marched either side of the road and brought up the rear. Inside the rectangle were the baggage carts. Octavius rode on one of the carts, attempting to catch up on some correspondence. Casca marched by the cart’s side, his expression as dour as the weather.

  Behind them were Agrippa and Cleanthes. The grey mare pulling one of the wagons spotted the road with something other than rain, and the tutor had to pull his companion out of the way to save him from stepping in the steaming excrement.

  “I’m sure, Marcus, that Attica would not want you day-dreaming about her to such an extent where you did not know where you were walking.”

  “What? How do you know?” Agrippa replied, astounded that Cleanthes could know about Attica and himself. He hadn’t even told Octavius - or he hadn’t told him especially.

  “I may not be Gordianus the Finder but I’m not blind. You’ve been walking around with a love-struck look on your face ever since the morning we departed from Cicero’s estate. And only a blind man, or a man devoted to someone, would have left the party the other night when those sirens turned up. The wax in your ears was the name of Attica, no? And don’t think that I haven’t noticed you clandestinely reading Catullus.”

  Agrippa blushed, but smiled also.

  “Of course, I also discovered your secret through having visited Attica on the morning we left. I met her through her father some years ago.”

  Agrippa laughed and shook his head.

  “I could live a thousand lifetimes, Cleanthes, and you doubtless would still own the ability to surprise and confound me. But I must ask that my secret becomes your secret, too. I must ask you to keep this from Gaius.”

  “Hmm, keeping secrets from each other now are we? You two really are indeed as close as a married couple,” Cleanthes joked. “But I give you my word that my lips will remain as tightly shut as Crassus’ wallet.”

  “It’s just that I do not want Gaius to be tempted to use my friendship with Attica for political means, to get closer to Atticus. Similarly Caecilia does not want to tell her father yet for fear of Atticus or Cicero using her to use me to reveal Gaius’ intentions. Or indeed they could just forbid our relationship altogether after discovering my loyalty to Caesar. I adore her Cleanthes. She’s smart, funny and beautiful. We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing each other,” Agrippa exclaimed, as much to himself as his companion, quoting Lucretius.

  At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet, Cleanthes thought to himself, and smiled fondly. He then remembered her, his angel.

  “For what it’s worth you have my blessing, Marcus. Attica is indeed a remarkable and accomplished young woman. As much as I try to forget – and drink aids me in this quest as you know – she reminds me of my first love. My sole love.”

  Again Agrippa turned to his companion, astounded.

  “Can a philosopher fall in love?”

  “Oh, I was much happier and wiser than a philosopher then.”

  “What happened, if you do not mind me asking?”

  “We were due to be married. But she passed away,” the tutor replied, his wistful expression falling into mournfulness. “Plato once said that one word frees us from all the weight and pain in life. And that word is love. But what he failed to mention was that if one loses that love, then the weight and pain return.” Cleanthes was now speaking to himself as much as his companion. Agrippa’s countenance couldn’t help but mirror his friend’s pained one and crease in sympathy.

  “When was this?”

  “It was a long time ago, although it sometimes feels like yesterday. But I do not wish to speak about it further. I already still think about it too much. Ultimately I’m a bad stoic, Marcus. Or a sad one,” the mercurial tutor quietly uttered, rain or tears spotting his cheeks.

  Octavius finished composing a letter to Octavia. He smiled to himself on recalling Cicero’s words, “And how is yo
ur sister? I met her once. She was half her husband’s age but twice as clever.” Octavius then glanced at the granite-faced Tiro. He had grown fond of the gruff veteran over the past weeks. He was a walking argument as to why Rome bested its enemies.

  “Tell me, Tiro. You’ve fought on all corners of the map. Which armies do you rate?”

  Although Casca’s expression changed very little upon hearing the question, he was always happy to recount old war stories and be consulted on military matters.

  “Well the Gauls were brave whenever they outnumbered us three to one. But they would often also just down swords, like guild members their tools, and surrender. The Greeks seemed more concerned with being well groomed than well trained. Sometimes I think their officers wanted to fuck us rather than kill us, such was their effete manner. I rated the Britons. The gods were right to give those savages their own island, away from everyone else. They can out drink anyone, and out fight most. But by far the greatest, finest army we faced was Pompey’s. His legions were well-led, well-equipped and well-disciplined. But Caesar had Bellona for his mistress it seems. Pharsalus was a close run thing. But quality will always best quantity.”

  “And what of the Egyptians?”

  “The Egyptians? They were more likely to poison us with their cuisine than kill us on the battlefield,” the veteran exclaimed, laughing at his own joke.

  Oppius and Roscius briefly turned their heads back at the audible cackling of their comrade. The centurion then gazed intently ahead once more, furrowing his brow in concern, or scorn, that the two scouts he sent ahead of the party had not reported back as ordered.

  *

  Dried blood and tiny blisters of rust stained the blade of Gravius’ lieutenant as he held it aloft. Once Gravius gave the word he would swipe his sword downwards, giving the signal for the men hidden in the woods on the opposite side of the road to attack. Their brown and russet tunics camouflaged them well. The overcast sky helped conceal them, too. The gods were on their side, Gravius thought, although he put more stock in himself and his men than any deities.