by Allan Massie
'Olives and bread and a little pecorino cheese, and the white wine of those hills suffice me. I am no man of action. But you have aged Caesar, in grief and disillusion,' he said.
'Antony's death,' I said… and left my meaning for him to divine. One never had to speak copiously to this master of words who understood silence. 'And Egypt was horrible,' I said. 'I hated it. Flies and corruption and incessant demanding chatter. I caught a fever but the cause was, I'm sure, my loathing for the ancient vice, cruelty, superstition and greed of Egypt.'
He had finally completed his Georgics and I asked him to read me a passage.
He complied, in that soft and gentle voice that nevertheless carried all the authority of knowledge: Happy – even too happy, if they knew their bliss -are farmers who receive, far from the clash of war, an easy livelihood from the just and generous earth. Although they own no lofty mansion with proud gates, from every hall disgorging floods of visitors, nor gape at doorposts bright with tortoise-shell veneer, tapestry tricked with gold, and rich bronzes of Corinth, nor yet disguise white wool with vile Assyrian dye and waste the value of clear oil with frankincense, still they sleep without care and live without deceit, rich with various plenty, peaceful in broad expanses, in grottoes, lakes of living water, cool dark glens, with the brute music of cattle, soft sleep at noon beneath the trees: they have forests, the lairs of wild game; they have sturdy sons, hard-working, content with little, the sanctity of God, and reverence for the old. Justice, quitting this earth, left her last footprints there… He gave me his slow smile. 'You envy my farmers, Caesar, who would never envy you. But we are not all called to the same work. Listen to the last line of that passage again.' And he repeated slowly, pausing over each word as if in wonder. 'Justice, in its ideal form,' he said, 'has quit the earth. But we can still discern the footprints. It falls on you, Caesar, to restore the shadow of justice.'
And then he read me another passage, a great hymn of praise to Italy, which I shall not quote since it ends in a compliment to myself – one I value more highly than all the honours that have been paid me…
We sat in silence. The air was still warm with the smell of flowers, and the red glow of the dying sun lay like a carpet of roses on the bay. We heard no more than a murmur from the city below. In the distance a dog barked, and though we could not hear it, I sensed the steady munching of cattle knee-deep in meadows, an image of peace and plenitude called forth by the poetry. All at once, I knew that the world was at the same time good and barren; that life had a deep purpose which was not made insignificant (though the actors were all ultimately that themselves) simply because it would never be fulfilled.
Virgil, as if reading my thoughts, said: 'The finished poem is never as good as the poem that was not written; and yet it must be set down as though it were. Every start contains the seed of a new failure, but that is no excuse for not starting.' 'I know what you are telling me,' I said.
Was it that evening that we first talked of 'The Aeneid'? Memory flickers in old age like a dying candle, and I cannot be certain; but I think it was. Perhaps in reality we made a contract, Virgil and I. If I assumed the burden of Empire, he would write Rome's epic: tell all how the Gods promised Aeneas limitless Empire. But it wasn't as simple as that. It never is… All the same, the contract existed. We both knew it. It hung in the soft air between us, and we both knew the cogency of a destiny recognized and accepted. Once, I said to him: 'What is destiny? Are we not free men?'
Virgil said: 'Leave that question to the philosophers. Act out what you feel and know. And our knowledge is this, Caesar: for both of us: we can only be free when we work out the destiny which we perceive is written for us. I do not know how this can be reconciled. I only know it is how it is.' The Curia buzzed with the rumour of a great occasion. Even the laziest and most inattentive senators thronged the benches. My stepfather sat with a rose pressed to his nostrils, to ward off the smell of hot flesh. The buzz died away as I began to speak.
The ground had of course been well-prepared. Agrippa, Maecenas and my other friends had taken soundings. We had, for instance, long discussed the question of names and tides. I had rejected the dictatorship, likewise the title of 'imperator', by which the soldiers had so often acclaimed me. It smacked too much of military rule. For a long time we could not come to a decision. Then someone – it may have been myself, it may have been Maecenas – suggested 'princeps'. It symbolized no direct power, merely a recognition of authority; Cicero, I recalled, had used it of both Pericles and Pompey…
Now I began by recounting what I had achieved for Rome. 'For the first time in a generation,' I said, 'civil discord is still. We are at peace.' Sunlight was visible beyond the open door. Philippus pressed his flower against his nose. Agrippa sat, tensed as a fighting bull. I reminded them that I had already rescinded all the acts of the triumvirate: Romans were no more subject to the arbitrary law which our extremity had made necessary. The Free State lived again. 'Accordingly,' I said, 'though speaking as one of this year's consuls, and invested with the tribunician power which I prize as the expression of the love and confidence of the Roman People, and which enables me to do my duty towards the people, I must tell you, Conscript Fathers, that the days of extraordinary powers are over. I shall lead you no longer… Receive back your liberty and the Republic. Take over responsibility for the army and the provinces, and govern yourselves in the manner hallowed by our fathers' example. The ship of the Republic, shaken by storms, almost wrecked on the rocks of ambition, sails free and serene again on the open sea.'
It was a pity I mentioned the sea, because looking over the assembled senators I saw so many mouths hanging open like fish waiting for a hook, that I almost broke out in giggles to see their consternation. However, I gathered up my papers and walked out of the Senate. The silence followed me into the Forum. Livia was alarmed when she heard what I had done, alarmed and angry.
Tm sorry,' I said, 'that I didn't consult you, but since you have been so unwilling to listen to what I had to say, it was difficult to do so. But don't worry, I haven't flown in the face of what you want me to do. I'm not giving up power. I'm making it legitimate.'
'If it works,' she said. 'I can guess what you're going to say. It seems to me a jolly sight too clever.'
'No,' I said, 'if you had seen their astonishment, you wouldn't say so. What I've done is give them a glimpse of the void. They are appalled. You see, my dear, whatever they say, they have forgotten how to act as free men capable of thinking of the general good. Even in this purged Senate the majority are either beasts or poltroons. Trust me, Livia, please.'
I put my arm round her, drew her to me, and kissed her. I took her chin and turned her face round that our lips might meet. For a moment she resisted, then returned my kiss as she had not done for almost five years. I drew her down to the couch, and, mindless of any possible interruption, we made love, as parched and starving men might fall on bread and wine. Our first intensity slackened and was replaced by that yielding tenderness coming from the knowledge of perfect union, which I had found with Livia and no other woman.
You were right,' she sighed, 'my damned Claudian pride has kept us apart; but I was right too to revolt. Nothing can ever repair the wound made by your sacrilege. We may be joined together again – oh we are, my love – but it can never be as it was. You can no longer be a favourite of all the Gods, and there is a curse on our marriage.' 'Don't, don't,' and I tried to silence her with kisses.
'No,' she said, when we had kissed long and then drifted into, and beyond, a second and tender love-making, 'it is different now, because I accept it as you have accepted what I feared you might reject or throw away. I love you, I have always loved you even while I hated you.'
'Livia, I shall love you, and no other woman like you, till I die. If I have seemed callous or indifferent, it was because I feared I had killed your love…'
'My love,' she murmured, 'is not a slave to die at an angry word.' 'Let us always live mindful of what we are to
each other. I know how little I am when your love is withdrawn…' And this time it was Livia who reached her lips towards mine. Writing that passage I relive its warmth, the sense of relief and comfort which we both felt. I warm myself at the knowledge that in that hour we approached the full flower of human felicity, creating something that the rigours, disappointments, quarrels and, yes, bitterness, of future years could never destroy. We attained then, while the stunned Senate resumed debate, that communion of souls which Plato holds out as the expression of perfect love, and which he considers unattainable in this life. Since that hour, I have known that it can be attained, and, though it is denied to our natures to remain in that condition, once attained is never utterly lost. There is a Greek word, ecstasy, often loosely used; it describes precisely what I knew as I lay with Livia in my arms, and the afternoon died to a winter evening, and I waited for the news I was sure would come. 'They were like sheep deprived of the shepherd and his guard-dogs, and aware of wolves lurking in the woods. You never saw anything so funny, my dear.' Maecenas drank wine and stretched himself on a couch. 'They positively fell over themselves to do you honour. As arranged, we let them feel the full effect, and then, just as one or two of the bolder spirits – Arruntius for example, seemed about to nerve themselves to accept your donation – old Plancus, that reliable traitor, got up, creaking with rheumatism, his face twisted with congenital dishonesty, and, yet, simply I suppose because he has such a long record of utterly selfish survival, carrying with him an air of authority. He spoke in praise of the Republic, as we had agreed, of the devotion you had shown the Republic, of how unspeakable it would be if anyone suggested that you had ever deviated from the ideals of the Republic – I thought that a bit rich but it got a big hand. You ought to be honoured, he said. Let your house be decked with laurels and let the civic crown be placed on your lintel. Well, no one could object to that. And as for your name – it was customary, he said, to reward those who had deserved well of the Republic with a new name. Pompey had been called "the Great". He proposed that you should be named "Augustus". No other name would so fully express their recognition of your religious veneration for the Republic. Yes, dear, I know you would have preferred "Romulus", but it is a king's name, and Plancus agreed with me that it might, just might, be taken amiss. You content yourself with Augustus, it's a lovely name, with all the right associations. Apparently – which I didn't know – it does link you with Romulus, because he was called "the most august of augurs". Well, this proposal too was carried by acclamation. Then he got down to the heavy stuff, and I must say, you can say what you like about his dreadful character, but he really did it very well. The problem was, he said, that the Senate could not accept your resignation…' 'Did nobody cry "why not"?'
'Yes, but only Gaius Rufius, who's practically half-witted – I can't think how he escaped your purge by the way… Plancus quelled him with a frown. What they had to do, he said, was work out a scheme which would preserve what you had regained for us all. He knew you were eager that the Senate should resume its old authority, and he welcomed that. Nevertheless, everyone knew how the Republic had been imperilled by the Dynasts. He therefore proposed that you should be given proconsular authority in all frontier provinces where there was a military establishment, and that the Senate should exercise its pristine authority in all others.' 'Did he actually mention "military establishment"?' 'He did.' 'And no one objected? No one saw the significance?'
'If anyone did, he kept it to himself. No, my boy, we've done it. I don't know what you call this new republic we've established – dyarchy doesn't sound a bad word to me, even though it is Greek…' So, in this way, I established a framework within which the business of government could be performed. Its success is easily measured. One has only to consider the contrast between the previous four decades, and the four which followed. I had contrived that the nobility should be satisfied by the show of power and the honour of consulships, while only those loyal to me found themselves with military commands. Even then, I early resolved that it was best, as far as possible, to keep these in the family. That was why I had arranged that Agrippa should divorce his first wife, Atticus' daughter (which marriage had made him enviably rich) and marry my niece, Marcella. Agrippa was bound to me in friendship, but I thought it desirable he should also become Marcellus' brother-in-law.
It is one of the curiosities of our nature that we no sooner have established something than anxiety breaks in. What would happen to the State, men wondered, should I die? I wondered myself, and worried, but, before I can explore this question, it is time to talk of family matters.
Our lack of children of our own was a grief to which I had become inured. Julia, however, was growing up to delight me, though Livia still had much to complain of in her behaviour. 'She won't leave Tiberius alone,' she said, 'it's not decent. You spoil her, of course, and you don't see that she's becoming the most arrant flirt.' But I could refuse my daughter nothing. Though she was thirteen now, and almost a woman, she would still clamber on to my knee, and kiss me all over my face. I couldn't believe that this imp of delight was the daughter of the frightful Scribonia. Incidentally Scribonia bombarded me with letters asking that Julia should be allowed to come to visit her; naturally that was impossible. For one thing Scribonia was now living openly with a middle-aged Spaniard who had been successively a centurion, tax-collector and (my agents informed me) the keeper of a brothel. I told Scribonia precisely why I could not allow Julia to visit her, and added that she (Scribonia) was lucky not to be prosecuted for public indecency. 'Moreover,' I said, 'my memory of your conversation is such that I would never willingly expose any young girl to it, particularly not my own daughter. You have only yourself, Scribonia, to blame for the sordid mess you have made of your life, but I'm certainly not going to allow you to soil my daughter. What's more, since I am writing to you, I shall take this occasion which is not likely to recur to point out to you that times and manners are changing. I would advise you to be more circumspect in your debauchery.'
'What an appalling woman Scribonia is,' I said to Octavia when I told her about this.
'Yes indeed,' she said, 'I only hope dear Julia hasn't inherited any of her tendencies.'
'Julia,' I said, 'may be a little wild and light-headed, but she is good-hearted.' That autumn I visited Gaul, taking Marcellus and Tiberius with me, that they might learn something of the business of government. I am too weary to write at length now of the details of my administration and my never-ending task of maintaining order throughout the vast Empire… Like all political work it is never done. 'The business of government,' I told the boys, 'is service. Attend to detail. Forget yourself. The only satisfaction is the work itself. The only reward, the ability to continue the work. It is our task to bring law and civilization to the barbarians. The true heroes of our Empire are the countless administrators whom history will never know. Remember you are only as effective as your subordinates, for in the nature of things, much must be delegated to them. Choose your men carefully therefore.' Whenever we talked of these matters, Tiberius was silent. At first I thought him bored or indifferent. Marcellus on the other hand was full of questions and suggestions.
One night, in Gaul, he said: 'Caesar invaded the island of Britain, didn't he?' 'You know he did. You have read his memoirs, haven't you?'
'Not much of them, to tell the truth, nuncle, he's a plaguey dull writer.'
Tiberius was nibbling at a radish. 'He's very lucid,' he said, 'and the descriptions of battles ring true enough. Except for one thing. He's always got to be the hero himself. Was he really like that, sir?'
'Yes but,' Marcellus interrupted before I could answer, 'I like the sound of this island Britain. There are pearls there, they say, and the warriors paint themselves blue. Why don't we carry on Caesar's work, and conquer it?' 'What do you say, Tiberius?'
Tiberius blushed, and began to stammer, 'I don't know, sir, it sometimes seems to me that we have perhaps a big enough Empire as it is. Wouldn't we be best
to consolidate before we bite off any more?' 'You really are an old woman,' Marcellus said.
I respected Tiberius' caution, and agreed with him. Yet my heart went out to Marcellus. Youth should be ardent, as his was. Tiberius, perhaps because I was unable to disguise my preference, withdrew more and more into himself. Yet I also said, 'Caesar was an adventurer. The conquest of Britain would be worthless, for the island is perpetually wreathed in fog, and I have grave doubts about the value of the pearl fisheries…' 'But it would be an adventure, nuncle…' Letter from my sister Octavia: It's curious, brother, that we now seem to find it easier to communicate in writing, when we are at a distance, than when we meet. I think I know why. The shadow of Antony falls between us. You can never meet me without thinking of Antony and the wrong you did me by forcing me to marry him. I don't of course entirely regret it. It is something after all to have been the wife of a man like Antony, vile and pathetic though he was in so many ways, degraded as he became. Moreover, I have my daughters, the two Antonias, and they are the delight and comfort of my life now that my children by my first marriage have left home.
