“And what of his companions? We know all too well of Oppius. All your father’s gold Attica could not buy his allegiance - a trait which would prove admirable should he serve our cause. But what of his other lieutenant, this Agrippa?”
The sound of the silver fork falling first clattered on the plate, and then clanged against the tiled floor. Attica, suddenly flustered, nearly dropped her knife, too. Thankfully the blonde curls which fell down the sides of her face concealed her blushes.
“He is steadfastly loyal and has Caesar’s ear as much as Balbus I warrant. We should still spend our time courting Salvidienus, or rather we should let Salvidienus court us. His son was close to Octavius on Apollonia but the family are staunch Republicans.”
“Alright, continue in that vein. But do not encourage too strong an alliance with the self-regarding would-be optimate. That I have to suffer the man’s prose is enough. I do not wish to suffer the man’s company. Oh, there are so many throws left in this game of dice, not even Euclid could calculate a winner. Yet if the gods would permit me to load the dice I would still favour Brutus. Did I tell you both what he said to Mark Antony at their meeting after the Ides? Antony joked, ‘Have you perchance a dagger under your arm even now?’ To which Brutus drily replied, ‘Yes - and a large one should you desire too, to be a tyrant.’ Now there is a man with a sense of humour and sense of fearlessness for doing what’s right. I warrant that it’ll be a matter of when rather than if that Brutus musters an army and returns to Rome.”
Although somewhat sighing at first when beginning his speech, Cicero beamed with paternal pride by its close. The young woman listened with rapt attention, humouring her host (having heard the anecdote before).
“So what do you think the fate of Rome will be?” Attica asked, partly curious and partly indulging the seasoned statesman. Figuring that his master may now wax lyrical for some time, Tiro turned his attention to some notes he had to catch up on. Years of service had weakened the secretary’s sight - and he squinted over the parchment to decipher his own shorthand.
“Firstly, the fate of Rome equates to the fate of us all. But to the matter. The wish is father of the thought, but Mark Antony and young Octavius will hopefully tear the Caesarian party apart. A house divided cannot stand. As such Mark Antony will not have the strength to defeat the Senate. And the Republic will be restored. Already some of the legions that Antony was relying on are siding with Octavius, or rather the pay rise he’s promising them. Our agents have informed us that Antony is even going to have to leave Rome to win back the mutinous regiments. Although he is married to Fulvia - perhaps it’s all just an excuse to get out of the house.”
The years fell from his wizened countenance as Cicero smiled at his own remark.
“But in all honesty my dear I am unsure as to the future. At my age even the past becomes unclear. We will see what fate has in store for Rome. The hen is the wisest of all the animal creation, because she never cackles until the egg is laid. But let us not talk of politics any longer. We will depress ourselves. Or, it seems, worse - for we have bored Tiro it seems.”
At hearing his name uttered Tiro pricked up his ears and turned to Cicero, as if awaiting instruction.
“Instead of admiring your own shorthand I would you look up and, wide-eyed, admire Attica’s latest fresco on the wall behind you. The picture, still glistening with wet paint in the firelight, was that of the view of the valley from her bench. Azures, yellow-greens and textured browns brightened up the previously bare wall. Dominating the centre of the image however was a mysterious male figure, gazing out across the valley also.
“You flatter me by saying, my dear, that the figure in the painting is a young version of me. I neither had the stomach for soldiering in my youth, nor a soldierly build like that. Moreover I owned but my wits, rather than this estate, when I was your protagonist’s age. But it really is quite an accomplished work. Thank you. Your father could have saved a small fortune in employing yourself, rather than commissioning overpriced Greek artists, to decorate the walls in his own villa.”
But the winsome artist was barely listening to the praise of her host as she stared at her own work, lost in thought - thinking about Agrippa; her friend, world. Attica found herself praying to Octavius, to keep him safe. Later that evening she wrapped her blankets tightly around her, closed her eyes and imagined his muscular arm coil itself around her waist. She recalled how his rough hand tenderly caressed her back - and then scrunched up her buttock and pulled her pliant figure even closer. She smiled, mischievously, remembering the sensation, and placed her hand between her silken thighs as she drifted off to sleep. Her body tingled. Tears - of happiness at finding him and fear of losing him - soaked her pillow. She had never felt like this before, because she had never been in love before.
*
Moonbeams poured through the open windows. Brutus closed his eyes and breathed in Porcia’s scent - honey and roses. She had finally drifted off to sleep. Her husband however could not sleep. Nor did he wish to, for the ghost of Caesar waited for him there. The quack doctor attending to his burgeoning army had brewed all manner of sleeping draughts - as foul as any nightmare - but to no avail. Brutus quietly slipped out of the bedroom and headed to his study. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark. Where before his night-time reading had been Plato and Sophocles - muster books and quartermaster reports now lay open upon his desk. Philosophical problems had given way to calculating rates of interest. He, Rome, was at the mercy of the money lenders. Would all their fates be decided on who could borrow the most money? He read the letter from Cassius again. Octavius had adopted the name “Caesar” – and was on his way to Rome. Brutus smiled, grimly. Would this Caesar now haunt his waking world, as Julius did his dreams?
32.
Morning. A swirling crest of smoke - fuelled by homes, forges and ovens - hung over the sprawling, hilly city in the distance. The white marble of the Palatine still shone through, like coral beneath murky water, however. Indeed a stranger may have mistaken the stately grandeur of Hortensius’ villa atop the Palatine as being the estate of a god rather than man, Octavius idly fancied. Hortensius, that famed advocate who proved, for Cleanthes, that “one can be master of the law without serving justice”. The party could also discern the Aqua Appia and Aqua Martial wend their way around Rome’s towering hills. The Viminal, the Aventine (the people’s hill), the Capitoline with ornate temples flowering upon it like a stone garden, the Quirinal, Caelian and the Esquiline - with its senatorial properties lining the crown of the hill and the slums of the Subura littering the bottom, the houses as rickety as the inhabitants’ prospects.
The gilded sun was still ascending in a vibrant sky behind Caesar, the sun seemingly appearing like a halo over his head. The evening before bore witness to a comet streaking across the starry firmament, auguring the arrival of good fortune. Aye, Balbus had been astute in choosing his date for Caesar’s arrival. Octavius, riding a white gelding akin to his great-uncle’s famed steed, trotted at the head of the party. Agrippa rode alongside his friend, pensiveness etched in both of their faces as they took in some of the tombs of Rome’s dead lining the Appian Way. A particularly ornate and original design caught Agrippa’s eye and he slowed to read the inscription.
“Stranger, should you stop to admire the beauty of this tomb, know that the woman housed inside was more beautiful still. Helen was her name. We were betrothed, but she passed away before we were married. Although never her husband, I feel like a widower. I will try and live my life as if still inspired by her bright soul, so that in death, I may marry her in the afterlife. And so my sad story may become a happy one.”
Agrippa thought of Cleanthes, then Attica.
“So, what do you hope that someone will say on your tomb?” Octavius asked his friend, with half an eye still on the magnificent villa of the Palatine.
“That I died peacefully in my sleep at a ripe old age. And that I did not owe anyone any money. On second thoughts, that I o
we a huge amount of money - and to my bitterest enemy.”
“I shall make sure that our bitterest enemies are lying in their tombs before us Marcus,” Octavius darkly declared, as he thought of those responsible for the deaths of Caesar and Cleanthes. “They must die,” Octavius coldly stated, as if a logician were determining their fate.
*
The sound of the breeze whistling through the pillars and effigies of the tombs was soon eclipsed by the murmuring and hubbub of the crowd, ever-increasing in number, which was spilling out of the city to greet Caesar’s heir. Balbus had sent letters ahead to loyal Caesarians to arrange a welcome for Octavius. Water vendors and costermongers had set up stalls. Soldiers, citizens, plebs, woman of rank (and their nubile daughters, dressed in their finest stolas and jewellery), merchants and the political classes populated the crowd alike. A few wore the black toga pulla as a mark of respect and mournfulness. Yet many wore their gayest attire. Children were placed on their parents’ shoulders to get a better look at the Caesar. Anticipation and expectation rippled through the throng. Many carried placards, articulating their support for the Caesar.
“A Rome without a Caesar would be like the Cyclops without his eye.”
“Caesar, save Rome - from itself!”
Agrippa whispered into his horse’s ear and stroked his neck to sooth the nervous animal, not used to such scenes.
“Look smart men, eyes front - no matter which wench attracts your attention,” Oppius ordered in all seriousness, but with a smile also. In response the infanteers tightened their formation and step and puffed out their chests, like sails billowing in the wind.
“At such times it should be my duty to remind Caesar that he is mortal - so what would you like someone to say about you upon your death?” Agrippa asked.
The clip-clop of hooves and caligae across the flagstones was soon muffled out by the congregation, as an increasing number of people spied the party and cheered. Octavius raised his voice to his friend to make himself heard.
“All the world’s a stage - and all the men and women merely players. When I come to the end of my life I just hope I can look back and say that if I have played my part well, clap your hands, and dismiss me with applause from the theatre.” Irony and sincerity vied for sovereignty in Caesar’s expression as he spoke. “But let us talk no more of our end, my friend. We are all but in Rome - and he who is tired of Rome is tired of life. I want to introduce you to Octavia as soon as possible, Marcus. We shall have dinner - and the food will be as fine as her company.”
Octavius warmly smiled, thinking about his sister. The idle fancy crept into his thoughts again that he would like to see his best friend and sister betrothed, to formally make his lieutenant part of his family.
Cheers began to mushroom into jubilant roars and salutations. Petals were strewn across the road ahead. Agrippa slowed his pace a little, allowing Caesar to march at the vanguard of his party alone. Agrippa was content to be the second man of Rome. The scene had an air of a military triumph however - and he was tempted to whisper in Caesar’s ear, “Remember you are mortal; remember you are mortal.”
Octavius was both touched and amused by the crowd’s adoration. He waved imperiously, yet also affectionately - Caesar-like - at the people below him. Women gazed up, almost swooning. Men nodded approvingly, remembering Julius Caesar. Priests and augurs pronounced prayers and blessings, perhaps hoping to be spotted and provided with patronage. As the party passed a segment of the crowd who appeared impoverished, Oppius ordered a number of his men to distribute food and alms. Some raised their hands in gratitude to the Caesar, worshipping him like a god.
Not everyone viewed the young Caesar with such adoration and affection, however. From the city walls a trio of optimate senators looked down with disdain at the interloper from Velitrae. The adopted son had inherited his father’s arrogance. The mob was displaying certain atavistic tendencies too - servitude and vulgarity.
“How long do you think the boy will last?”
“About as long as the bread he’s handing out. Antony will chew him up and spit him out. He’s far too wet behind the ears. An aedile has more influence and could politically outwit him. I look forward to his speeches, too. Will there not be pauses in the oration when the boy has to suck his thumb?”
The self-important senators let out a chorus of laughter, albeit the man who stood close to them, overhearing the exchange, merely raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in a half-smile. Domitius Enobarbus thought to himself how Octavius had inherited Caesar’s luck. He knew not the details but the party had somehow survived Gravius’ attack. An agent from Praeneste had sent word ahead. It was the very last dispatch that Antony had read before the consul had ventured out to Asculum, to quell the disquiet among the Caesarian legion encamped there.
“I shall deal with the whelp when I return. The boy needs to get used to waiting upon my decisions anyway. This will be good practice for him.”
The aristocratic senators beside him laughed again at a jibe, yet Domitius shook his head - in disappointment or amusement. If the reports were true - and Octavius had gleaned the support of both Balbus and Cicero - then the Senators may well now possess a shelf life as long as the bread that Caesar’s heir was distributing.
Oppius offered a subtle nod to a brace of fellow centurions who stood with their cohorts on either side of the road. As Octavius passed they saluted in unison and then drew their swords in a guard of honour.
“Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.”
The chant swelled, rumbled, like magma inside the belly of a volcano, waiting to explode.
“Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.” Citizens soon took up the soldiers’ cry.
Balbus and Oppius hadn’t informed Octavius of this part of the reception. They wanted Caesar’s reaction to be genuine, as the authenticity would add to the performance. Cornelius had also expressed to Oppius, whilst planning the young Caesar’s arrival into the city, how Octavius needed to be convinced of his greatness as well as the people.
“Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.”
Agrippa soaked up the colourful and jubilant atmosphere. He started to compose in his head what he would later write to Salvidienus, who had begged him for more news on what had happened and what was going to happen. He would posit how they would soon all be debating the future of Rome in the Senate, instead of under a shady tree in an Apollonian field. Agrippa thought of Rufus but briefly however - and he started to compose a letter to someone whose mettle was more attractive.
“In some senses Rome was always more of an idea than place to me - a just, intelligent and magnificent idea. Yet today I witnessed the semi-divine city which housed that idea ... And riding through its gates was Caesar, who embodies the idea of Rome … But for all its expanse and opulence my mind’s eye rested upon a far more just, intelligent and magnificent image … More than Rome or Caesar I aspire to the idea of you … I keep your letter by my bedside. I house it in a sealed jar, so as to preserve its perfume … Every night I drink in your scent and swim in your words … Oppius asked me if I was drunk the other evening, as he caught me ‘grinning like a fool’ as I thought of you … You make me want to be a better man Attica ...”
“Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.”
The words thumped out from hundreds of lungs, in tune with his beating heart. Caesar beamed, as brightly as the midday sun. The light spun his fair hair into gold. He waved, warmly and magnanimously - and shook the occasional hand. The people loved Caesar. He was Caesar. Therefore the people loved him. And he would return their love. He would provide food for their stomachs, a sense of glory and worth to fill their hearts - and spectacles and entertainments for their eyes to feast upon. Caesar should be a servant of the people, as much as their master. His client list would be every Roman citizen, equestrian and farrier alike. Laws, libraries and religion would edify. Odours and ordure - and the cacophony of sound - poured out the gates of the city as Octavius approached its entrance. The people’s love - and his sense of de
stiny - bore him upon a cloud. He would become the First Man of Rome. If Sulla could, why can’t I? - Gaius asked himself, quoting Pompey. Again, irony and sincerity laced the thought. Octavius smiled, mercurially.
“Caesar, Caesar, Caesar, Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.”
He had never felt so close to Julius as now. He sensed Caesar’s burden, pride and ecstasy - admiring and pitying his great-uncle more as a result. The cheers chimed in his ears, spurring him onwards. The gates sucked him in too, Charybdis-like. Inside, the walls and buildings bred shadows. Agrippa fell behind as the tide of supporters increased between them.
“Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.”
The people swarmed around the heir. Some just wanted to touch his cloak.
Endnote
Many of the major characters who feature in Augustus: Son of Rome existed. Much of the narrative adheres to historical events. But Augustus: Son of Rome is very much a novel - so I have made stuff up too. Apologies for any historical inaccuracies, whether they are unwitting or not.
Over the years I have had the chance to meet - and work with - a number of authors whose books proved to be a source of inspiration and information for Augustus: Son of Rome. Tom Holland, Adrian Goldsworthy, Conn Iggulden and Simon Scarrow continue to entertain and educate. I am not alone in also owing a debt to Cicero, Shakespeare, Plutarch and Suetonius - whose works are equally entertaining and educational. In regards to further reading about Augustus and his era I can strongly recommend Ronald Syme’s The Roman Revolution, Josiah Osgood’s Caesar’s Legacy and Anthony Everitt’s biographies of Cicero and Augustus.
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