Augustus

by John Williams

  In any event, I doubly rejoice that you grant leave of absence to Philippus and myself; for it means pardon for the past and indulgence for the future.

  X. Letter: Marcus Antonius to Octavius Caesar, from the camp of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus near Avignon (September, 43 B.C.)

  Octavius: My friend and lieutenant, Decius, whom you released at Mutina to return to me, tells me that you have treated those soldiers of mine that you captured with kindness and respect. For that, you have my gratitude. He further tells me that you made it apparent to him that you bear me no ill will, that you refused to surrender your troops to Decimus, and so forth.

  I see no reason why we should not talk, if you think it might be helpful. Certainly you have more in common with my cause than you have with the cause of those time-servers in the Senate. By the way, is it true (as I fear) that they have now also made a public enemy of our friend Lepidus, whom a few months ago they honored with a statue in the Forum? Nothing surprises me any more.

  You may have heard that Decimus is dead. A silly business: a little band of Gallic barbarians surprised him. I should have preferred to have dealt with him myself, at a later date.

  We could meet at Bononia next month; I have some business there, mostly with the remnants of Decimus’s troops, who have decided to come in with me. I would suggest that we not meet with our forces behind us—just a few cohorts, perhaps, for our personal safety. If we came together in full force, our soldiers might get out of hand. Lepidus will have to figure in this, too; so you can expect him. But our men can work out these details.

  XI. Senatorial Proceedings: the Consulships of Quintus Pedius and Octavius Caesar (September, 43 B.C.)

  That the sentence of outlawry against Marcus Aemilius Lepidus and Marcus Antonius be annulled and that letters of conciliation and apology be sent to them and the officers of their armies.

  Passed by the Senate.

  Senatorial Trial: against the murderers and conspirators in the murder of Julius Caesar. Prosecutors: Lucius Cornificius and Marcus Agrippa.

  That the absent murderer Marcus Junius Brutus be forbidden the bounties of Rome and be condemned in his exile.

  That the absent murderer Gaius Cassius Longinus be forbidden the bounties of Rome and be condemned in his exile.

  That the Tribune of the People, P. Servilius Casca, having absented himself from the Senate in his guilty fear, be forbidden the bounties of Rome and condemned.

  That the absent conspirator and pirate Sextus Pompeius be forbidden the bounties of Rome and be condemned in his exile.

  All conspirators and murderers found guilty by Senatorial Jury and condemned to their fates.

  XII. Letter: Gaius Cilnius Maecenas to Titus Livius (12 B.C.)

  Of all the memories you have dredged from my soul by your questioning, my dear Livy, now you have found the saddest. I have for several days delayed writing you, knowing that I must confront again that old pain.

  We were to meet with Antonius at Bologna, and we marched from Rome with five legions of soldiers at our backs, it having been agreed that Antonius and Lepidus would bring no more troops than we did. The conference was to be held on that little island in the Lavinius, where the river widens toward the sea. Narrow bridges connected the island to both banks, and the country was perfectly flat, so that the armies could halt at some distance from the river, and yet keep each other in view at all times. Each side stationed a guard of perhaps a hundred men at either entrance of the bridge, and the three of us—myself, Agrippa, and Octavius—advanced slowly, while across from us Lepidus and Antonius, each with two attendants, came from the other bank at an equal pace.

  It was raining, I remember—a gray day. There was a small hut of unhewn stone a few yards away from the bridge, and we made our way toward that, meeting Antonius and Lepidus at the door. Before we entered, Lepidus looked at us for weapons, and Octavius smiled, saying to him:

  “We shall not harm each other. We have come here to destroy the assassins; we have not come to mimic them.”

  We stooped to enter the low door, and Octavius sat at the rough table in the center of the room, with Antonius and Lepidus on either side of him. You realize, of course, that a general agreement had been made even before we met: Octavius, Antonius, and Lepidus were to form a triumvirate modeled upon that of Julius Caesar, Gnaeus Pompeius, and Crassus, made nearly twenty years before; this triumviral power was to last for five years. This power would give them the rule of Rome, with the right to appoint urban magistrates and command the provincial armies. The provinces of the West (Cassius and Brutus held those of the East) were to be divided among the triumvirs. We had already accepted what was by far the most modest portion—the two Africas, and the islands of Sicily, Sardinia, and Corsica—and the possession of even those was in serious doubt since Sextus Pompeius illegally held Sicily and controlled nearly the whole of the Mediterranean; but land was not what we wanted from the compact. Lepidus retained what he had previously commanded: Narbonensis and the two Spains. And Antonius had the two Gauls, by far the richest and most important of the divisions. Behind it all, of course, was the necessity of our combining forces so that we might conquer Brutus and Cassius in the east and thus punish the murderers of Julius Caesar and bring order to Italy.

  It became quickly clear that Lepidus was Antonius’s creature. He was a pompous and fatuous man, though if he did not speak he made quite an imposing figure. You know the type—he looked like a senator. Antonius let him drone on for a few minutes, and then he made an impatient gesture.

  “We can get to the details later,” he said. “We have more important business now.” He looked at Octavius. “You know that we have enemies.”

  “Yes,” Octavius said.

  “Even though the whole Senate was bowing and scraping when you left, you can be sure they’re plotting against you now.”

  “I know,” Octavius said. He was waiting for Antonius to continue.

  “And not only in the Senate,” Antonius said. He got up and walked restlessly about the room. “All over Rome. I keep remembering your Uncle Julius.” He shook his head. “You can’t trust anybody.”

  “No,” Octavius said. He smiled softly.

  “I keep thinking of them—soft, fat, rich, and getting richer.” He pounded his fist on the table, so that some of the papers there were jarred to the clay floor. “And our soldiers are hungry, and will get hungrier before the year’s out. Soldiers don’t fight on empty stomachs and without something to look forward to after it’s all over.”

  Octavius was watching him.

  Antonius said: “I keep remembering Julius. If he had just had a little more resolve in dealing with his enemies.” He shook his head again.

  There was a long silence.

  “How many?” Octavius asked quietly.

  Antonius grinned and sat down at the table again. “I have thirty or forty names,” he said negligently. “I imagine Lepidus has a few of his own.”

  “You’ve discussed this with Lepidus.”

  “Lepidus agrees,” Antonius said.

  Lepidus cleared his throat, stretched his arm out so that his hand rested on the table, and leaned back. “It is with much regret that I have come to the conclusion that this is the only course open to us, unpleasant though it may be. I assure you, my dear boy, that—”

  “Do not call me your dear boy.” Octavius did not raise his voice; like his face, it was totally without expression. “I am the son of Julius Caesar, and I am consul of Rome. You will not call me boy again.”

  “I assure you—” Lepidus said, and looked at Antonius. Antonius laughed. Lepidus fluttered his hands. “I assure you, I intended no—no—”

  Octavius turned away from him and said to Antonius: “So it will be a proscription, as it was with Sulla.”

  Antonius shrugged. “Call it what you want to. But it’s necessary. You know it’s necessary.”

  “I know it,” Octavius said slowly. “But I do not like it.”

  “You’ll get
used to it,” Antonius said cheerfully, “in time.”

  Octavius nodded absently. He drew his cloak more tightly about his body, and got up from the table and walked to the window. It was raining. I could see his face. The raindrops hit the window casement and splashed on his face. He did not move. It was as if his face were stone. He did not move for a long time. Then he turned to Antonius and said:

  “Give me your names.”

  “You will support this,” Antonius said slowly. “Even though you don’t like it, you will support it.”

  “I will support it,” Octavius said. “Give me your names.”

  Antonius snapped his fingers, and one of his attendants handed him a paper. He glanced at it, and then looked up at Octavius, grinning.

  “Cicero,” Antonius said.

  Octavius nodded. He said slowly: “I know that he has caused us some trouble and that he has offended you. But he has given me his word that he will retire.”

  “Cicero’s word,” Antonius said, and spat on the floor.

  “He is an old man,” Octavius said. “He can’t have many more years.”

  “One more year—six months—a month is too long. He has too much power, even in his defeat.”

  “He has done me harm,” Octavius said, as if to himself, “yet I am fond of him.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Antonius said. “Any other name—” he tapped the roll of paper “—I’ll discuss with you. But Cicero is not negotiable.”

  Octavius almost smiled, I think. “No,” he said, “Cicero is not negotiable.”

  He seemed to lose interest, then, in what they said. Antonius and Lepidus wrangled over names, and occasionally asked for his assent. He would nod absently. Once Antonius asked him if he did not want to add his own names to the list, and Octavius replied: “I am young. I have not yet lived so long as to acquire that many enemies.”

  And so, late that night, in the lamplight that flickered with every movement of the air, the list was drawn up. Seventeen of the richest and most powerful senators were to be at once condemned to death and their fortunes confiscated; and a hundred and thirty more were to be proscribed immediately thereafter, and their names published, so that Rome might find limits in which to contain its fear.

  Octavius said: “If it is to be done at all, it must be done without delay.”

  And then we slept, like common soldiers, wrapped in our blankets, on the clay floor of the hut—it having been agreed that none of us would speak to our armies until all the details of the compact were settled.

  As you know, my dear Livy, much has been said and written of that proscription, both in blame and praise; and it is true that the prosecution of the affair did get rather badly out of hand. Antonius and Lepidus kept adding names to the list, and a few of the soldiers used the confusion to settle their own enmities and to enrich themselves; but such is to be expected. In the matter of passion, whether of love or war, excess is inevitable.

  Yet I have always been bewildered when, in the ease of peace, men raise the questions of praise or blame. It seems to me now that both judgments are inappropriate, and equally so. For those who thus judge do not judge so much out of a concern for right or wrong as out of a protest against the pitiless demands of necessity, or an approval of them. And necessity is simply what has happened; it is the past.

  We slept the night, and rose before dawn—and now, my friend, I approach that sorrow of which I spoke at the beginning of this letter. It was dread of that approach, perhaps, which invited me to this easy philosophizing, for which I trust you will forgive me.

  The proscriptions made, it now remained for the triumvirs to settle the affairs of Rome for the next five years. It had already been agreed that Octavius would relinquish the consulship that he had so recently received from the Senate; by virtue of their position, each of the triumvirs already had consular powers, and it was felt that it was wiser to make use of lieutenants to perform those senatorial duties, thus enlarging the senatorial base of power and freeing the triumvirs to carry out their military tasks unimpeded. The second day’s business was to choose the ten consuls who would have authority over the city for the next five years, and to divide the available legions among the triumvirs.

  We breakfasted on coarse bread and dates; Antonius complained of the simplicity of the fare; it was still raining. By noon the armies had been disposed, and in the transaction Octavius gained three legions that we had not had before, in addition to the eleven that we already commanded. The afternoon we were to devote to the choice of consuls.

  It was an important negotiation, you understand; it was clear, though unspoken, that beyond the agreements we had made, there remained significant differences between the purposes of Marcus Antonius and Octavius Caesar. The consuls were the men who would represent the interests of the triumvirs, individually and collectively, in Rome; it was essential that we choose those whom we could trust, and yet those who were acceptable to the other parties. It was a rather delicate matter, as you can imagine; and it was not until late in the afternoon that we had proceeded to the fourth year.

  And Octavius offered the name of Salvidienus Rufus.

  I am sure that you have had, as we all have, that mysterious experience of prescience—a moment when, beyond reason and cause, at a word, or at the flicker of an eyelid, or at anything at all, one has a sudden foreboding—of what, one does not know. I am not a religious man; but I am sometimes nearly tempted to believe that the gods do speak to us, and that only in unguarded moments will we listen.

  “Salvidienus Rufus,” Octavius said; and I had within me that sudden sickening rise, as if I were falling from a great height.

  For an instant Antonius did not move; then he yawned, and said sleepily: “Salvidienus Rufus. . . . Are you sure he’s your choice?”

  “He is my choice,” Octavius said. “You should have no objection to him. He would be with me now, as are Agrippa and Maecenas, were he not commanding the legions I left behind before I came here.” Octavius added dryly, “You will remember, I believe, how well he fought against you at Mutina.”

  Antonius grinned. “I remember. Four years. . . . Don’t you think he might grow impatient in that time?”

  “We will need him against Cassius and Brutus,” Octavius said patiently. “We will need him against Sextus Pompeius. If we survive those battles, he shall have earned the office.”

  Antonius looked at him quizzically for a long moment; then he nodded, as if he had decided something. “All right,” he said. “You can have him—either for the consulship or the proscription. Take your choice.”

  Octavius said: “I do not understand your joke.”

  “It’s no joke.” Antonius snapped his fingers; one of his attendants handed him a sheet of paper. Antonius dropped it negligently in front of Octavius. “I give him to you.”

  Octavius picked up the paper, unrolled it, and read. His face did not change expression. He read for a long time. He handed the paper to me.

  “Is this Salvidienus’s handwriting?” he asked quietly.

  I read. I heard myself say, “It is Salvidienus’s handwriting.”

  He took the letter from my fingers. He sat for a long time looking in front of him. I watched his face and heard the dull hiss of the rain as it fell on the thatched roof.

  “It’s not a great gift,” Antonius said. “I have no use for him, now that we have our agreement. Now that you and I are together, I wouldn’t be able to trust him. This kind of secret would do neither of us any good.” He pointed to the letter. “He sent it to me just after I had joined Lepidus at Avignon. I must say I was tempted, but I decided to wait until I saw what came out of this meeting.”

  Octavius nodded.

  “Shall we put his name on the list?” Antonius asked.

  Octavius shook his head. “No,” he said in a low voice.

  “You have to get used to these things,” Antonius said impatiently. “He’s a danger to us now, or will be. His name goes on the list.”

&n
bsp; “No,” Octavius said. He did not raise his voice, but the word filled the room. His eyes turned to Antonius, and they were like blue fire. “He is not to be proscribed.” Then he turned away from Antonius, and his eyes dulled. He said in a whisper: “The matter is not negotiable.” He was silent. Then he said to me: “You will write to Salvidienus and inform him that he is no longer a general of my armies, that he is no longer in my service, and—” he paused, “—that he is no longer my friend.”

  I did not look at the letter again; I did not have to. The words were in my mind, and they still are, after these more than twenty-five years, like an old scar. I give the words to you, as they were written:

  “Quintus Salvidienus Rufus sends greetings to Marcus Antonius. I command three legions of Roman soldiers, and am constrained to remain inactive as Decimus Brutus Albinus organizes his forces for a probable pursuit of your army and yourself. Octavius Caesar has been betrayed by the Senate, and returns to Rome on a vain mission. I despair of his resolution, and I despair of our future. Only in you do I discern that purpose and will which may punish the murderers of Julius Caesar and rid Rome of the tyranny of an aristocracy. I will, therefore, put my legions at your disposal, if you will consent to honor me with a command equal to your own, and if you will agree to pursue the cause to which I committed myself with Octavius Caesar and which has been betrayed by ambition and compromise. I am ready to march to you at Avignon.”

  And so in my sorrow I sent the letter to him who had been our brother, using as messenger that Decimus Carfulenus who had jointly commanded at Mutina with Salvidienus. It was Carfulenus himself who told me of what ensued.

  Salvidienus had had rumors of Carfulenus’s mission, and waited for him alone in his tent. He was pale, Carfulenus said, but composed. He had been newly shaved, and in accordance with the necessity of the ritual his beard was deposited in the little silver box that lay open on his table.