In middle age Atticus had married a cousin, Caecilia Pilia, who bore him a girl, Caecilia Attica, his only child and heir to his fortune. A bout with the summer paralysis had left Pilia an invalid; she died shortly after the battle of Philippi, leaving Atticus to rear Attica on his own. Born two years before Caesar crossed the Rubicon, she was now thirteen years old, tenderly fathered by a sophisticate who never concealed any of his activities from her, believing that ignorance would only render her vulnerable to mischief-making gossip. Notwithstanding this, Atticus worried about his one chick now that she was attaining maturity—whom could he choose as her husband in five years’ time?
Remarkable shrewdness and an uncanny knack of maintaining good relations with every faction in Rome’s upper class had thus far ensured Atticus’s survival, but upon the death of Caesar the world changed so radically that he feared for both his own survival and the welfare of his daughter. His one weakness had been sympathy for the more shady among Rome’s matrons; it had led him to succor Servilia, the mother of Brutus and mistress of Caesar, Clodia, the sister of Publius Clodius and a notorious man eater, and Fulvia, who had been the wife of no less than three demagogues in Clodius, Curio, and Antony.
Sheltering Fulvia had almost caused his ruin, despite his power in the knight-run world of Rome’s commerce; for a terrible moment it had looked as if everything from his grain importations to his vast latifundia in Epirus would go on the auction block to benefit Antony, but upon receipt of Antony’s curt letter ordering him to abandon Fulvia, he did just that. Though in private he wept bitterly when she opened her veins, the fate of Attica and his fortune mattered more.
So when Antony arrived in Athens with Octavia and her nursery full of children, Atticus set out to ingratiate himself with both husband and wife. He found the Triumvir much calmed and soothed, and correctly laid the credit for that at Octavia’s door. They were patently happy together, but not in the manner of younger newlyweds, who never wanted any company save their own. Antony and Octavia were eager for company, attended every lecture, symposium, and function the Capital of Culture could offer, and entertained at home frequently. Yes, a year of marriage had improved Antony, in the same way that famous boor, Pompey the Great, had improved after he married Caesar’s enchanting daughter, Julia.
Of course the old Antony still inhabited that Herculean shell—brash, hot-tempered, aggressive, hedonistic, and lazy.
It was the last, Antony’s laziness, that occupied most of Atticus’s thoughts as he strolled down a narrow Athenian alley on his way to dinner with Antony in the governor’s residence; it was April of the year in which Appius Claudius Pulcher and Gaius Norbanus Flaccus were consuls, and (along with the rest of Athens) Atticus knew that the Parthians had been driven back to their own lands. Not by Antony, but by Publius Ventidius. In Rome people were saying that the Parthian incursions had simply fallen apart, crumbled so suddenly that Antony hadn’t had time to join Ventidius in Cilicia or Syria. But Atticus knew better; nothing had prevented Antony from being where the military action was. Nothing, that is, except Antony’s most fatal weakness: a laziness that led to perpetual procrastination. He seemed blind to the pace of events, comfortably telling himself that all would happen when he wanted it to. As long as Julius Caesar had been alive to push him, the weakness had not seemed so fatal, and after Caesar’s murder Octavian had pushed. But Philippi had been such a great victory for Antony that the weakness had suddenly mushroomed. Just as it had when Julius Caesar had left him in charge of all Italia while he went about the world crushing the last of his enemies. And what had Antony done with this immense responsibility? Harnessed four lions to a chariot, assembled an entourage of magicians, dancing girls, and clowns, and roistered heedlessly. Work? What was that? Rome ran herself; as the man in charge, he could do precisely what he wanted, which was to roister. Though it had no basis in reality, he seemed to believe that, since he was Marcus Antonius, everything would turn out the way he thought it should. And when everything didn’t, Antony blamed everyone but himself.
Underneath Octavia’s calming influence, he had not really changed. Pleasure ahead of work, always. Pollio and Maecenas had rearranged triumviral boundaries more sensibly, an act which should have completely freed Antony to lead his armies. But apparently he wasn’t yet ready to do that, and his excuses were hollow. Octavian represented no genuine threat, and despite his protestations, he had enough money to go to war. His legions already existed, were properly equipped, and supplied with cheap grain by Sextus Pompey. So what had stopped him?
By the time he arrived at the governor’s residence Atticus had worked himself into the sour rage old men feel, and found to his dismay that he and Antony would be dining alone; pleading some illness in the nursery, Octavia had begged off. That meant she couldn’t coax or cajole Antony into a good mood. Heart sinking, Atticus realized that it was going to be an uncomfortable meal.
“If Ventidius were here, I’d try him for treason!” was Antony’s opening statement.
Atticus laughed. “Rubbish!” he said.
Antony looked startled, then rueful. “Yes, yes, I see why you say it’s rubbish, but the war against the Parthians was mine! Ventidius exceeded his orders.”
“You should have been in the command tent yourself, my dear Antonius!” Atticus said with a snap. “Since you weren’t, what do you have to complain about when your deputy succeeded so well that he didn’t even have many casualties? You ought to be offering to Mars Invictus.”
“He was supposed to wait for me,” Antony said stubbornly.
“Nonsense! Your problem is that you want two ways of life at one and the same moment.”
The fleshy face betrayed Antony’s irritation at such blunt words, but the eyes lacked the red spark that blazed a warning of impending doom. “Two ways of life?” he asked.
“Yes. The most famous man of our day strutting across the Athenian stage to a loud chorus of admiration—that’s one. The most famous man of our day leading his legions to victory—that’s the other.”
“There’s lots to do in Athens!” Antony said indignantly. “It’s not I out of step, Atticus, it’s Ventidius. He’s like a boulder running downhill! Even now he’s not content to rest on his laurels. Instead, he’s taken himself and seven legions up the Euphrates to kick King Antiochus on the shins!”
“I know. You showed me his letter, remember? What Ventidius is or is not doing isn’t the point. The point is that you’re in Athens, not in Syria. Why don’t you admit it, Antonius? You’re a procrastinator.”
In answer, Antony bellowed with laughter. “Oh, Atticus!” he gasped when he was able. “You’re impossible!” Suddenly he sobered, scowled. “In the Senate I’d have to put up with couch generals criticizing me, but this isn’t the Senate, and you’re courting my displeasure.”
“I am not a member of the Senate,” Atticus said, incensed enough to have lost his fear of this dangerous man. “A public career is open to criticism from all walks, including mere businessmen like me. I say again, Marcus Antonius, you are a procrastinator.”
“Well, perhaps I am, but I do have an agenda. How can I go any farther east than Athens when Octavianus and Sextus Pompeius are still up to their tricks?”
“You could squash both those young men, and you know it. In fact, you ought to have squashed Sextus years ago, and left Octavianus to his own devices in Italia. Octavianus is no real threat to you, Antonius, but Sextus is a boil that needs lancing.”
“Sextus keeps Octavianus busy.”
His temper snapped. Atticus leaped off the couch and came around to confront his host across the low, narrow table loaded with food, his normally amiable face twisted into fury. “I am fed up with hearing you say that! Grow up, Antonius! You can’t be the virtually absolute ruler of half the world and think like a schoolboy!” He clenched his fists and shook them. “I’ve wasted a great deal of my precious time in trying to work out what’s the matter with you, why you can’t act like a statesman. Now I know.
You’re pigheaded, idle, and not nearly as intelligent as you believe you are! A better-organized world would never have made you its master!”
Jaw dropped, too stunned to speak, Antony watched him gather up his shoes and toga and stalk toward the door. Then he too leaped off the couch, reached Atticus in time to halt his progress.
“Titus Atticus, please! Lie down again, please!” The rictus of a smile peeled his lips back from his teeth, but he managed to keep his grip of Atticus’s arm gentle.
The rage died; Atticus seemed to shrink, then let himself be drawn back to the couch and once more ensconced in the locus consularis. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No, no, you’re entitled to your opinions,” Antony said quite jovially. “At least I know what you think of me.”
“You asked for it, you know. Whenever you start to use Octavianus as an excuse for lingering west of where you ought to be, I am sorely tried,” said Atticus, breaking bread.
“But, Atticus, the boy’s a complete idiot! I worry about Italia, I really do.”
“Then help Octavianus instead of hindering him.”
“Not in a thousand years!”
“He’s in dire straits, Antonius. The grain from this coming harvest looks as if it will never arrive, thanks to Sextus Pompeius.”
“Then Octavianus ought to stay in Rome paddling his fingers up Livia Drusilla’s skirts instead of mounting invasions of Sicilia with sixty ships. Sixty ships! No wonder he was trounced.” One huge but shapely hand reached for a tiny chicken. The food seemed to soothe him; he looked sideways at Atticus with a grin. “Just grant me a successful campaign against the Parthians next year and I’ll give Octavianus all the help he needs when I’m done.” He looked suspicious. “Surely you don’t like Octavianus?”
“I am indifferent,” said Atticus, sounding detached. “He has odd ideas about how Rome should function—ideas that won’t benefit me or any other plutocrat. Like Divus Julius, I think he intends to weaken the First Class and the upper end of the Second Class to strengthen the lower classes. Oh, not the Head Count, I give him that. He’s no demagogue. Were he simply a cynical exploiter of popular gullibility, I wouldn’t be concerned. But I think he firmly believes that Caesar is a god, and he the son of a god.”
“His pushing for the deification of Caesar is a mark of insanity,” said Antony, feeling better.
“No, Octavianus isn’t insane. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a saner man than he.”
“I may be a procrastinator, but he has delusions of grandeur.”
“Perhaps so, but I hope you’ve retained sufficient impartiality to see that Octavianus is something new to Rome. I have reason to believe that he employs a small army of agents throughout Italia working strenuously to perpetuate the fiction that he is as like Caesar as peas in a pod. Like Caesar, he’s a brilliant orator with huge crowd appeal. His ambition knows no bounds, which is why, in a few years’ time, he’s going to face a very serious situation,” Atticus said soberly.
“What can you mean?” Antony asked, at a loss.
“When Caesar’s Egyptian son is older, he’s bound to visit Rome. My Egyptian connections tell me that the boy is Caesar’s image, and in more than mere looks. He’s a prodigy. His mama maintains that all she wants for Caesarion is a secure throne and the status of Friend and Ally of the Roman People, and that may be so. But if he’s Caesar’s image and Rome sets eyes on him, he might very well filch Rome, Italia, and the legions of Octavianus, who at best is an imitation Caesar. You won’t be affected because you will have gone into an enforced retirement by then—Caesarion is hardly nine years old. But in thirteen or fourteen years he’ll be a man grown. Octavianus’s struggles with you and Sextus Pompeius will pale to insignificance compared to Caesarion.”
“Hmmm,” said Antony, and changed the subject.
An unsettling dinner, for all that Antony’s digestion stayed its usual hearty self. Some reflection enabled him to shrug off Atticus’s criticisms of his own conduct—how could he know what problems Antony faced anent Octavian? After all, he was seventy-four years old; despite his trim, agile figure and his business acumen, senility must be setting in.
It was Atticus’s comments about Caesarion that stayed with him. Frowning, he cast his mind back to that three-month sojourn in Alexandria, now over two years in the past. Was Caesarion truly almost nine? What he remembered was a gallant little boy, game for every exploit from hunting hippopotamus to hunting crocodile. Fearless. Well, so had Caesar been. Cleopatra tended to lean on him despite his age, though that hadn’t surprised Antony. She was emotional and not always wise, whereas her son was—was what? Tougher, certainly. But what else? He didn’t know.
Oh, why didn’t he have more patience with the fine art of correspondence? Cleopatra did write to him from time to time, and it hadn’t escaped Antony that her letters were mostly about Caesarion, his cleverness and natural authority. But he hadn’t really taken much notice, deeming her remarks the waffles of a besotted mother. Married to Octavia, he knew all about besotted mothers. A vague itch stirred in him to visit Alexandria and see for himself what Caesarion was becoming, but at the moment it was impossible. Though, he thought, it would afford him terrific pleasure to discover that Octavian had a rival cousin more to be feared than Marcus Antonius.
He sat down to write to Cleopatra.
My dearest girl, I have been thinking about you as I sit here in Athens metaphorically impotent. The literal state has not yet been visited upon me, I hasten to add, and I feel the best friend welded to my groin begin to stir at the memory of you, your kisses. Athens, you perceive, has improved my literary style—there’s little else to do here than read, patronize the Academy and other philosophical haunts, and talk to men like Titus Pomponius Atticus, who comes to dinner.
Can Caesarion really be nearing his ninth birthday? I suppose he must, but it sorrows me to think that I’ve missed two precious years of his childhood. Believe that as soon as I can, I’ll come to you. My own twins must be close to two—where does the time go? I have never seen them at all. I know you called my boy Ptolemy and my girl Cleopatra, but I think of them as the Sun and the Moon, so maybe, when you have Cha’em in residence, you could officially call my boy Ptolemy Alexander Helios, and my girl Cleopatra Selene? He’s the sixteenth Ptolemy and she’s the eighth Cleopatra, so it would be good if they had their private names, wouldn’t it?
Next year I will definitely be in Antioch, though I may not have time to visit Alexandria. No doubt you’ve heard that Publius Ventidius exceeded his mandate from me by going to war and throwing the Parthians out of Syria? It did not please me, since it smacks of hubris. Instead of putting Herod on his throne, he went off to Samosata, which, I am just informed, has shut its gates to withstand siege. Still, it must be the size of a village, so it shouldn’t take more than a nundinum to reduce.
Octavia is delightful, though sometimes I find myself wishing she had more of her brother’s obnoxiousness. There’s something intimidating about a woman who has no faults, and she has no faults, take my word for that. If she complained occasionally, I’d think better of her, since I know she thinks I don’t spend enough time with the children, only three of whom are mine. In which case, why not spit it out? But does she? Not Octavia! She just looks sorrowful. Still, I must count myself lucky. There’s no woman in all of Rome more desirable; I am deeply envied, even by my enemies.
Write and tell me sometime how you are, and how Caesarion is. Atticus made some penetrating remarks about him and his relationship to Octavianus. Hinted there might be future danger in it for him. Whatever you do, don’t send him to Rome until I can accompany him. That’s an order, and don’t be a Ventidius. Your boy is too like Caesar to be welcomed kindly by Octavianus. He’ll need allies in Rome, strong support.
In late May Antony received a letter from Octavian on the usual subject—his difficulties with Sextus Pompey and the grain supply—but this one implored Antony to meet him in Brundisium immediately. A
ccompanied only by a squadron of German horse guards, a grumbling Antony left Athens for Corinth to catch the ferry to Patrae. But before departing he testily repeated his grievances to Dellius, starting with his resentment of Ventidius.
“He’s still sitting in front of Samosata conducting that ridiculous snail’s pace siege! I mean, it puts him in Cicero’s league! The whole of Rome knew that Cicero couldn’t general a fox in a henhouse, even with Pomptinus doing the actual fighting.”
“Cicero?” Dellius asked incredulously, sidetracked; he was too young to remember much about Cicero’s earlier exploits. “When on earth did the Great Advocate conduct a siege? This is the first I’ve heard about any military exploits.”
“He went out to govern Cicilia ten years after he was consul, and got mired down in a siege in eastern Cappadocia—a literal village named Pindenissus. It took him and Pomptinus ages to reduce it.”
“I see,” said Dellius, who was indeed seeing, but not sieges conducted by the most unwarlike consul Rome had ever produced. “I was under the impression that Cicero was a good governor.”
“Oh, he was—if you approve of the kind of man who makes it impossible for Roman businessmen to make provincial profits. But Cicero isn’t the point, Dellius. Ventidius is. I hope that by the time I return from seeing Octavianus he’s gotten the gates of Samosata reduced to pieces and is busy counting the booty.”
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