"We're trying to find his father's will," the big, soldierly-looking fellow informed me. The odd youth seated next to him just looked at me with a wide-eyed, reptilian stare. I detested him without even knowing who he was.
"I see, and who might this father be?"
"Caesar," said the big man. A closer look told me he was little older than the other. His size and his tough looks made him seem the elder.
I contributed to the silence that followed. This was not the sort of thing one expected to hear on an otherwise unexceptionable morning in Rome. Now I gave the wide-eyed boy a closer look. He was scrawny, with a big head on a thin neck and a shock of unruly, light-coloured hair. I couldn't see much family resemblance. He had the beginnings of a straggly beard and wore a dark, dingy toga, both tokens of mourning. A lot of Romans were wearing mourning at that time.
"Then you would be young Octavius?" I said.
"I am Caius Julius Caesar," he said stiffly, then added, "Octavianus." He gestured to the larger man. "And this is Marcus Agrippa. I am Caesar's son and I have come to Rome to receive my legacy."
"Good luck," I told him. "I hear that Antonius has pretty well laid hands on all of Caesar's property and he's not a man to provoke. I'd advise you to go back to Athens or wherever you were and write him a nice letter. He might let you have some of the land and Caesar's library. Antonius doesn't have much use for books."
"It was Appolonia," Agrippa growled. "It's in Illyria."
Of course I knew where Appolonia was. I'd been there. I also knew that young Octavian had been sent there. There was just something about the boy that made me want to needle him. A character failing of mine, I suppose, but nothing that happened later caused me to alter my first impression.
"I am Caesar's heir and I've come to claim what it mine by right!" The way he said this was profoundly unsettling. In spite of myself, I was reminded of our recently deceased Dictator.
"You were Caesar's friend," Agrippa said. "You are married to his niece. You should want to see his will carried out."
"I would very much like to see the provisions of Caesar's will carried out," I told them. "He left me a generous bequest. But what I really, truly want above all is not to be murdered like he was. Being murdered is a messy business and it can ruin a perfectly good toga. Defying Antonius is a good way to get murdered. He's a nice enough fellow, don't get me wrong. I've always gotten on well with him and I've helped him out of a few scrapes. But he is an Antonius and the Antonü are a family of hereditary criminals. He likes to keep what he's seized and he's surrounded by friends who love to put obstacles out of his path."
Agrippa snorted. "In Greece we were told that Metellus was a man who could get things done, that he's a man who doesn't frighten easily." I was getting to be known by a single name in those days, mainly because the prominent men of my family had been killed or exiled in the last round of civil wars. They had backed Pompey and that was the sort of mistake you didn't make twice. I was about the only prominent Caecilius Metellus left in Rome, and trying to keep my head down.
"Listen," I said. "I was there when Caesar's will was read at the house of Calpurnius Piso. Believe me, it was almost worth not getting my bequest just to see the look on Antonius's face when he learned that the vast bulk of the estate was going to you," I nodded at Octavian, "and your little brother. And of course there were the 300 sesterces per citizen and the great gardens, which he left to the public: Antonius didn't dare interfere with those. He does love being the darling of the people." I could see the boy's jaw clench at mention of the gardens and the money. Clearly he thought it should all be his, no matter what his adoptive father had wished.
I was getting tired of this. "Rome has always been a hazardous place," I told them. "Right now it is a very deadly place, especially for men of ambition. Soon, I fear, we shall see the old days of Marius and Sulla again: proscription lists and paid informers and blood in the streets. Only this time there will be no men of the stature of those two, just a pack of second-raters tearing at Rome and at each other like dogs fighting over a carcass. At least Marius whipped the barbarians and Sulla gave us a fine constitution. The current lot will ruin the empire through pure incompetence."
"None of that matters," Octavian said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
"All the property, the money, even the provinces they are so busy apportioning to themselves. Caesar's strength wasn't in his wealth but in his soldiers. The one who commands their loyalty will be the new master of Rome." Agrippa cut an impatient look at him, obviously wishing he'd keep his mouth shut. But, for some reason, the boy was the dominant of the two.
For my own part, I just gaped. We seldom encounter such presumption in one so young. Clodius at his worst wasn't a match for this one. "I don't think we need—" I was cut short by the timely arrival of my wife, Julia.
"Caius!" she cried delightedly, clapping her hands. She rushed to embrace the little lout. "And you must be Marcus Agrippa. Why, you've both grown so much since I last saw you!" As if that were some sort of accomplishment.
"How wonderful to see you, cousin!" said the boy, and to my amazement his face lit up with unfeigned pleasure. Well, Julia could charm a Parthian off his horse. "We've been speaking with this—with your distinguished husband, who seems to have been out of Rome on my previous visits." This was not quite the case. I'd just never bothered to go to any of his appearances and Caesar had packed him off to Illyria when things got lively at home.
"We think your husband could help us with a difficulty we have," Agrippa added.
"And I am sure he will be most happy to render you every assistance," said my ever-helpful wife. I tried to signal her, but as usual she ignored me. "What is the problem?"
"It's Antonius," Octavian said. "He's confiscated Caesar's will and all his other papers. The provisions of the will are public knowledge but that isn't worth much without the original document. Besides, I believe that in his other writings, my father makes it known that I am to succeed to his other offices and powers."
I couldn't help wincing every time he referred to Caesar as his father. I had had a decidedly mixed experience with that strange and difficult person, but he was the one truly great man I had ever known; as close to being a demigod as a mortal ever gets. To hear this little wretch claim paternity of such a father was ludicrous. And among Caesar's many offices was that of Dictator. Surely he wasn't claiming that, too?
"Intolerable!" cried Julia. "Antonius is such an odious man! I never understood Caesar's regard for him, except as a soldier. He should have taken action against the assassins and other conspirators instantly. Instead, he has made peace with them. It is a dishonour and a disgrace!" I had explained to her the many very good reasons why Antonius had been unable to do so, but she refused to accept them. Julia had a blind spot where her beloved uncle was concerned.
"I could not agree more, cousin," the boy said, with Agrippa nodding grimly beside him. "He is a vicious, rapacious villain and he aspires to all of Caesar's honours."
"Don't be too rough on him," I said, pouring myself a Falernian. "He gave Caesar a wonderful funeral speech. Lied through his teeth, of course, but he made the old boy look good and the conspirators look bad." All three of them glared at me, for some reason. That called for yet more Falernian.
"The fact is, my lady," Agrippa said, "we must have those documents to show the soldiers. They are simple men, very impressed by official documents, and they revere the memory of Caesar. Just now Antonius commands their loyalty, as the commander nearest to Caesar at the time of his death, but they are confused just now and could be swayed by lies of the conspirators, or they could attach themselves firmly to Antonius. To press our Caesar's claims, we must have his father's papers."
"
I understand," Julia told him. "And I am sure that my husband can get them for you. Don't mind his gruff manner, it's just his way. He will do whatever needs be to set things right." No question of consulting me about this, you will notice.
"Very well," I said. It had occurred to me that, if I made a nuisance of myself, Antonius might simply do away with the brat. "I'll see what's to be done." I saw them to the door. "I knew your father, you know," I told Octavian. "He once threatened me with execution. One day I was brawling with Clodius and practically cut his throat right in front of your father's court. We'd been rolling through the streets and I finally had him down, had his head jerked back and my dagger applied to his jugular, when I looked up and there was the praetor urbanus Caius Octavius, big as day, seated on his curule chair and a Vestal sitting right beside him. Would've been death for me to kill Clodius right in front of those two, and I never got another chance as good." I chuckled at the memory. Those were the good old days.
The boy turned at the door and said, coldly, "My father was Julius Caesar." And they left.
I went back to the courtyard. "Why did you tell them I'd help them?" I demanded of Julia. "It should be enough that I don't like him. More to the point, if I want to stay alive, I have to walk carefully around Antonius. He has no quarrel with me now, but if he even suspects I'm plotting against him with some rival —"
"Oh, don't be so timid," she said. "You'll just be pursuing a legal matter, just like any senator. And young Octavian is the coming man, did Rome but know it. You'll do well to put him in your debt."
"That child? What makes you think he's ever going to amount to anything?"
"First, because Caesar adopted him. He wouldn't have done that for anyone he didn't consider a worthy heir. Second, what did you think of Marcus Agrippa?"
That took me aback. "Very impressive: soldierly, capable, tough and intelligent. He's the one that looks like consular material, not the boy."
"Yet you can see he all but worships Octavian. He is devoted and loyal. Doesn't that tell you anything?"
She had a point, not that I was willing to concede it. "What of it? Clodius inspired loyalty in better men. Did that make him great?"
"Clodius came of the family of the Claudia Nerones, who are insane. Octavian's heritage is that of Octavius and Atius and, most importantly, Caesar, all fine and sensible families." She had a patrician's grasp of family connections. She also had their blindness to the fact that it is wealth that determines any family's importance, not any splendid qualities they are fancied to have inherited.
"He'll be nothing but trouble. Listen to the way he uses that name, as if he had a right to it!"
"Caesar did adopt him," she said.
"He adopted him in his will," I pointed out. "Such a testamentary adoption has to be ratified by a praetor and a court. That's not likely to happen while Antonius holds the whip."
"Dear," Julia said, "just go find those papers. I will handle relations with young Octavian. He's my cousin, after all." She poured me another cup of Falernian, rather than attempt to curb my intake in her usual fashion. I took this as an ominous sign.
My first call was upon Cicero. He possessed the finest legal mind in Rome, though his political acumen was deserting him. At this time he was engaged in making a series of mistakes which would culminate in his death a few years later. He had taken no part in the conspiracy to murder Caesar, but he had made no secret of his approval of it. This was understandable if he had intended to throw himself wholeheartedly into the cause of Brutus and Cassius, but he tried to hew to a middle course and please everybody, a sure recipe for suicide.
He received me hospitably, as always. "Decius Caecilius! How good of you to call. Come join me." We went into his library and indulged in the usual refreshments and small talk, then I broached the cause of my visit.
"Ah, yes, that remarkable young man. I spoke with him just yesterday, and assured him of my good will and support." This was typical of Cicero in those days. First, approve of the murderers of Caesar, then try to befriend his adopted son.
"I gave him no such assurance," I told him, "but Julia prodded me into helping him."
He laughed dryly. "The things we men do to assure domestic harmony, eh? As a matter of fact, I recommended you to him. You've undertaken many odd projects in the past."
"I wish you hadn't. But it seems I have to try. By what right does Antonius retain the papers?"
He laced his fingers across his small paunch and gazed at his ceiling. "Let me see— how many soldiers does Antonius command?"
"Several legions seem loyal to him," I answered.
"And how many soldiers have you, or Octavian?"
"None."
He spread his hands, his point made.
"And yet," I said, "Antonius has never been, shall we say, one to place a high value on paper, be the contents poetry or a will. Why is he so determined to retain these?"
"Probably because he knows that simple, common men hold written documents in awe. The rabble of the city and the soldiers of the legions are just such men."
"There has to be something else," I objected. "Antonius can charm the populace and the legions alike. It's his specialty."
"It is true that he has few other talents," Cicero sniffed. "He is a fine soldier, but Rome has many such. To hear him speak in public, one would never guess that he has the mind of an ox. Rome has seen many mediocre men in the ascendant, though few have risen as high as Antonius. Mind you, he had to wrap himself in Caesar's bloody toga to do it."
"So there is no legal pretext I can use to pry the papers from him?"
"You have the law on your side," Cicero assured me. "But the law does not apply to a Dictator, and that is what Antonius is, though without constitutional precedent. He is what he is by threat and force of arms."
So, having found no help from that quarter, I went to call on the next man on my list: the great Marcus Antonius himself.
I found him in the mansion he had built for himself on the Palatine. It was a gaudy place, worthy of Lucullus at his most ostentatious. Antonius had been noted for personal extravagance in his youth. Caesar had made him comport himself with greater dignity and simplicity, but now Caesar's constraints were off. I practically had to kick aside the peacocks and other exotic fowl as I crossed his formal gardens, where scores of slaves planted and tended imported trees and shrubs, culled flowers, dug new beds, hauled water and so forth. Artisans installed fountains that showered perfumed water or even wine; others inlaid the walkways with picture-mosaics. Everywhere stood fine Greek statues, stolen from the cities of Asia or seized from his Roman enemies. In short, everything was being done to create a setting worthy of Rome's most splendid man, Marcus Antonius.
The house was full of his sycophants. They paid decent respect to my ancient and illustrious name, if not to me personally. Everyone remembered that my family had taken sides against Caesar, though I had not. A few were his legates and senior commanders; serious military men. Most, however, were merely the sort who always attach themselves to any man whose star seems to be in the ascendant, and who desert him as swiftly when his star sets. I have forgotten almost all of their names.
One of the few I do remember came to greet me. "Decius Caecilius! We haven't seen you in too long!" It was Sallustius Crispus, a man I always despised. "Have you come to pledge your loyalty to Marcus Antonius at last?"
"Why?" I asked him. "Has he been voted king while my back was turned?"
He sidled closer. That was the way Sallustius was: he sidled. "Don't be foolish, Metellus. I advise you for your own good: make peace with Antonius and give him your loyalty."
"I was never at odds with him in the first place," I insisted, wondering even as I said it why I bothered explaining myself to this worm. It was just the sort of man he was. Sallustius could infuriate me by wishing me a good day.
"Didn't say you were, I assure you. It's just that lines are being drawn just now. A man must take sides."
"True. I've decid
ed to side with young Octavian." I don't know why I said it. Perhaps I just wanted to see the expression on his ugly face change, which indeed it did.
"Octavian? He's a nobody!"
"Well, I've always liked long odds at the Circus," I told him.
"In this game, it's not chariots," he spat. "It's more like pitting a fifth-rate tyro against a champion of the arena."
This man Sallustius was an especially egregious specimen of the sort of senator we had in those days, the ones who contributed so much to the downfall of the Republic. He had served as an ineffective Tribune of the Plebs, been kicked out of the Senate by the censor Appius Claudius, wormed his way into Caesar's favour and got reinstated with his help. After that he clung to Caesar like a limpet and rode that man's fortunes to the top. He was given Africa to govern and plundered the place thoroughly and at that time was accounted one of the richest men in Rome. But in a time of contending warlords a man of no family only kept his wealth by adhering to a powerful man, and Sallustius had chosen Antonius. He also had pretensions to being an historian and man of letters.
"I'm here to see him on a legal matter," I said impatiently.
"Oh, well. I'll take you to see him." Apparently, he had appointed himself Antonius's steward or major-domo, an office usually occupied by a slave. But some men are slaves by nature, and love to ingratiate themselves by servile acts.
We found Antonius amidst his cronies, and the sight of him took me somewhat aback. They were in a courtyard, enjoying the sunshine, some of them wrestling or fencing with wooden weapons, as if this were the palaestra. In the midst of this athletic throng Antonius held forth, dressed in a brief tunic that appeared to be made largely of silk, a fabric so precious that it was forbidden by the censors from time to time, and forbidden to women at that. Men weren't even supposed to think of wearing the stuff.
Under pretext of mourning, he cultivated a full beard.
Antonius never needed much excuse to go bearded. He fancied that it increased his resemblance to Hercules, the supposed ancestor of his family. The name supposedly came from Anton, a son of Hercules. His hands gleamed with golden rings and he even wore a necklace of heavy gold links.
The Will Page 1
