by Allan Massie
TWO
My happiest memory of my Triumph remains that of Marcellus, my nephew, who rode on the trace-horse on the right of my chariot. Livia was displeased because her son Tiberius was placed on the left. But there were two reasons for this, both good ones. In the first place, Marcellus was the elder, and connected to me by blood. Secondly, the war of Actium and the conquest of Egypt represented for me revenge for the insults which Antony had paid to Marcellus' mother, my dear sister Octavia. The children of Antony and Cleopatra walked chained in the procession, while Marcellus, whom Antony had despoiled, rode a black steed in my triumph. A man would have to be dull to the fitness of things not to take pleasure in this.
But there was another reason. I became middle-aged the year of my Triumph. True, I was no more than thirty-six, but I had suffered seventeen years of war and perpetual crisis since Julius' murder. War and politics had eaten up the youth I had never had leisure to enjoy. It seemed to me, even as my chariot trundled over the paving stones of the Sacred Way, as the crowds cheered and wondered, and the noon sun beat down, and the tramp of the legions raised clouds of dust in the swimming air, it seemed to me, as if a cloud had crossed the sun, that I had thrown away my youth only for this vain show of power. I experienced an awful moment; a sense of waste, futility, of a life as barren and infertile as the desert, swept over me. That hour of glory which soldiers dream of tasted like stale bread. I caught an intimation of the vast and ponderous vanity of war and politics. And then I turned my head, and saw Marcellus, his eyes dancing, his smile wide, accepting, and altogether happy, as he caught the crowd's huzzas and threw them back again; and I felt refreshed. Tiberius, on my other flank, rode carefully, stern-faced, as indifferent to the mob then at the age of - what? - thirteen, fourteen, I really cannot remember - as he would always be. In time I have come to respect Tiberius' steely indifference to popularity, even his contempt for the mob, I respect and understand it as an expression of his nature, even while I see its danger, and would myself always be incapable of his Claudian superiority; but then, it irritated me that a boy should be so cold, and I delighted all the more in Marcellus' own delight.
And I loved Marcellus. There was nothing shameful in my love, nothing perverse; but it made Livia jealous and it was on account of Marcellus that she remained withdrawn from me. I loved him indeed for his beauty, for his straight limbs (he was an inch taller than I when he was fifteen, but stopped growing that year), for the dancing life in his dark blue eyes, for the curve of his lips, for the way in which his dark-gold hair curled into his nape, for his candid expression. I loved his beauty as it is right to love any beauty given us on earth, but I did so purely, as I would later love the beauty of my grandsons, Gaius and Lucius, whom I adopted as my sons. I relished his conversation too; it was a perpetual fountain of wit and fancy. I loved his speculations which reached beyond his intellect's range. I loved him for his loving lack of respect, for the way he teased me, and called me 'nuncle'. And yes, I saw in him the future of our house. But Livia, jealous of my love for Octavia, as she had always been, was still more jealous of my love for Marcellus. He seemed to her to stand between her sons and the light. She believed the worst, and continued to do so even after I had proved the nature of my love for the boy by giving him in marriage to my daughter Julia.
Throughout my life I have been puzzled by the perversity with which others view love; as if there were only one kind of love. As a matter of fact, sexual love has never been of great importance to me. I can divorce the body from emotions. Naturally, when Livia withdrew herself from me, I took mistresses: slave-girls, professional courtesans, the occasional married woman (but never free-born virgins; that is wrong). They were of little importance save as a means of physical relaxation. None of them touched my heart which was still given first to Livia, and then to other members of my family. Nevertheless these years after Actium were difficult ones in my marriage, as they were in other respects too.
* * *
The great question could be simply put: what were we to do with the Republic now that we had saved it? We had eliminated faction. All our enemies were dead. In the mood of relaxed tension, my ardour dull, I sat by Livia as she lay stretched out in the shade of the colonnade, and said to her,
'I can consider my work done.'
She sat up abruptly, but I continued,
'Why shouldn't I imitate Sulla, establish a few constitutional reforms, which will enable power to pass smoothly within the Republic, and retire to one of our country estates? Wouldn't you like, Livia, us to be able to live quietly together, like normal people, without this endless work, this alacrity to crisis, these appalling incessant demands? After all,' I said, 'I have been in politics long enough to know that there are no solutions, solutions don't exist, it isn't a political term, it's just one damned thing after another. I've lost my youth, I realized that the other day, and I'm tired. So tired of it all.'
'You must be mad,' she said.
I took an apple from a bowl of fruit and bit into it; it was sharp and sour.
Livia said, 'Or you are teasing me? Why struggle as you have struggled only to throw all away when the game is won? Do you really believe Rome can return to the old ways? Are you as naive as that old fool Cicero was? I may have only the body of a weak woman but I should scorn even to make such a suggestion. What's more, I am by reason of my Claudian birth naturally more inclined to the old ways than one of your background is likely to be. I have more consular masks among my forefathers than I care to count. My family has been prominent in the State since the expulsion of the kings, and yet I know that the old ways are finished. Your talk is sheer sentimentalism. It is unworthy of my husband . . .'
It occurs to me that these memoirs may be read by future generations ignorant of the Republic's constitution, ignorant too of the causes of the crisis which had gripped Rome for almost a century. Yet, essentially it was simple. Our institutions were designed for a city state that was guided by a group of aristocratic families, each jealous lest any one family, any single person, should be able to grasp supreme power. They therefore guarded against this by ensuring that no man should hold power for long, and none should do so by himself. A system of annual magistracies was established; the two consuls, who were chief among them, had equal standing. In times of national emergency a dictator might be appointed to exercise supreme power, but, in the great days of the Republic, his appointment was always of brief duration. Julius Caesar had himself made dictator for life; nothing else that he did aroused more animosity, for a perpetual dictator was king in all but name, and we Romans, who love and value our liberty, have always despised and detested the idea of kingship. Only a man of Caesar's profound and infinite conceit could have thought of making himself king. However, as Rome's empire spread, our ancient constitution began to creak, to split at the seams like an old bolster. The first shock was given when, to guard against a barbarian invasion, Gaius Marius (himself barbarous and uncouth) was given five successive consulships. It was then that the citizen army of the early Republic became a professional force; and the new professional soldiers looked to their general for reward rather than to the Republic. They were his troops rather than Rome's. I myself had profited from this, but the Republic suffered. Moreover, the demands of Empire required that these generals held prolonged commands: Caesar's Proconsulship in Gaul was given him for five years in the first instance, then prolonged for five more. The annual magistrates became near ciphers in comparison with the military dynasts, the great proconsuls like Caesar and Pompey; and, let me add, Antony and myself. One magistracy only was not submerged: this was the tribunate.
Tribunes, originally appointed to guard the interests of the plebeians, had no executive authority; but they could initiate and veto legislation, and their persons were sacrosanct. All the dynasts found it advisable to ensure that one or more of their adherents was numbered among the ten tribunes; only thus could their interests at Rome be safeguarded. The ostensible reason for Caesar's crossing o
f the Rubicon and invading Italy was that the sacrosanctity of the tribunate had been violated by his enemies. I early saw the importance of this office, and, though not being a plebeian and so ineligible to be a tribune myself, I arranged that I should be granted the authority, powers and status of a tribune. It was the wisest decision I ever made. It rendered my person safe, and it enabled me to be in touch with the people and so to safeguard their interests against the nobility.
The developments which had taken place were regretted by traditionalists. I could share their regret. I have no doubt that our ancestors' Republic was a fine and honourable thing. But, unlike the myopic Cato, unlike Cicero who was a sentimentalist, I knew it could never be recovered. We had to move on to some new thing, whatever it might be; and, after I had digested Livia's words, and knew she spoke the truth, I realized that my task was now to establish a new structure for Roman political life. It must reflect realities, as Cicero's plan for 'an agreement of the classes' never did; but, if it was to satisfy the old political classes, and, my nature being conservative I had no wish to do otherwise, it must also retain the form and appearance of the old Republic as far as possible.
I make no apology for the dryness of this part of my memoirs. Whoever wishes to understand me, must understand the work I had to do. Those who find constitutional politics boring can always skip this chapter. Only let them remember that their judgement of my life and work will then be flawed, for they will have neglected to examine the heart of the matter. They will be like those who judge a melon by its skin, and do not taste the flesh.
I invited Maecenas and Agrippa to dine with me, that we might explore the courses open to us. We dined sparingly, for there is no deep thinking on a full stomach, just as there is no sound thinking on an empty one.
Agrippa of course was generally as abstemious as I have always been myself, though, like many who are essentially men of action, he was given to occasional bouts of heavy asking. I avoided him then for it distressed me to see my closest friend give himself over to brutish vulgarity that would end in a stupor so deep that revolution might break out with him unaware. As for Maecenas, he was more and more given to tippling. Sip, sip, sip, all day long, never quite drunk, less and less often wholly sober. That night however he was in full possession of his faculties.
I outlined the position as I saw it.
Agrippa said: They killed Caesar because he would not restore the Republic. They killed him in the name of liberty. We fought against the Liberators because it was in our interest to do so. We would have been nothing if we hadn't. And we fought against Antony, partly for that reason too, but also because, with all his Eastern nonsense, he was going the same bloody way as Caesar. He'd even taken up with the same woman, and Jupiter only knows what notions of Oriental tyranny she stuffed his poor head with. That's why Italy rallied to us, supported us, and, with a bit of help from our boys, swore an oath of loyalty to you. But that loyalty was - what's the bloody word? -conditional, that's it, and temporary. People, not only the nobles, but all good Romans, want the Republic back. They respect you, they're grateful to us all even, but they love the old forms of government and won't be happy without them. Don't go getting other ideas into your head, old boy. If you take the same road Julius did, you'll end up where he did, with your body full of dagger-thrusts, lying at the base of Pompey's statue. Don't kid yourself it won't be like that.'
Maecenas said: 'Well, of course, my dears, I'm only a poor Etruscan outsider. But that gives me a certain advantage. I can see things clearly. Now I'm quite sure Marcus Agrippa is right, as he usually is, when he says the Romans love their old institutions and won't be happy without them, but things change, that's the trouble. It's our business to ask, not so much why, as how, and then seek the remedy. I know you've kept me off the wine tonight but give me a small mug while I get this straight. Thanks, lovey. Well, it seems to me that, to put it in the proverbial nutshell, the cause of our troubles - and even Agrippa can't deny we've had troubles - isn't so much the vice and ambition of particular men, as the complexity of our situation. You could say it rests in the multitude of our population and the magnitude of the business of government. The old ways were fine when Rome was a city of farmers and a few merchants, but now . . . just consider, the population of the Empire, even of the city itself, embraces men of every kind, both as regards race and endowment. Their tempers and desires are of every imaginable sort, and the business of the State has become so vast, so complicated and demanding that it can be administered only with the greatest difficulty . . .' He paused. I asked him to continue.
'Let me make a comparison,' he said. 'Our city is like a great merchant-vessel. It's manned by a crew of every race and lacks a pilot. So for many generations now, four, five, I don't know, it's been rolling and plunging, like a ship with neither ballast nor steersman. No wonder it's crashed into the rocks. The miracle is, it hasn't sunk. It's enough indeed to make one believe in the Gods and in a sacred destiny for Rome, that it hasn't sunk. But it can't continue long without the guidance of one directing spirit. Restore the Republic and everything we have achieved in the last seventeen years will be swallowed up. We will have performed a vast waste of effort. Oh yes, and one more thing, when I say a directing spirit, I mean the directing spirit of one man - which, in the circumstances, must be you. Don't even think in terms of a new triumvirate. That's a recipe for civil war. It's happened twice. It would happen again, even if the triumvirate were formed by us three here, who have been good friends for a long time. It's in the nature of things. I tell you, ducky, you have a simple choice. Assume your responsibilities and make the civil wars worthwhile; duck them and make your whole life to now a nonsense . . .'
When I had landed at Naples on my return from Egypt, I found Virgil there. He was living in a villa a few miles out of the city on the Sorrentine peninsula, where, in ancient times, the Sirens dwelled. He invited me to dine with him, but, when I arrived in the mellow glow of the late afternoon, I found the poet pale, listless and unable to eat. It was the first intimation of the illness that would afflict him over the next decade and bring about his death, that came too soon for me, for Rome and for Poetry. He toyed with his food, but brushed aside my concern, and was himself solicitous for my health.
'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 l
ine 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.
