by Allan Massie
"My stepfather has often told me how proud he is to have restored the Republic."
"Balls. And you know it, don't you?"
"Well…" "Precisely."
"Of course I realise it's not the Republic as it used to be, and that he doesn't deceive himself that it is."
"That's better. It's not the Republic, and the Republic will never be restored. Its time has gone. You can't run an empire on the basis of votes in the Roman forum, or of long-winded deliberations in the Senate either. So it's not the Republic. What is it then?"
"Let's say it's the empire, sir."
"Fair enough. But what's the empire? Is it a monarchy?" "Not precisely." "A dictatorship?"
"The office of dictator has been abolished, hasn't it?" Agrippa laughed, drank some beer, fixed me with his eyes. His gaze was hard, heavy, imperious. I felt his power. He waited. I held my peace. "So what is the empire?" he said again. "You are one of its two architects, sir."
"And even I am ignorant. But I can tell you this: only immature states can be either democracies or monarchies. We have grown beyond both these forms of government. The classic Greek delineation of types of state no longer applies, for we are not even an oligarchy as they understood the term. We are perhaps a constellation of powers…"
Agrippa had no reputation as a theorist. Indeed, to hear him speak, you would have thought him a mere force of nature, an exponent of brute strengths. Not so.
"The Princeps is a remarkable man," he said. "But you know that. Nevertheless you must see that he doesn't owe his success to his own qualities entirely."
"I know that too, sir."
"And he has his faults."
Again I said nothing. We were in his villa by the sea, north of the city, in a garden apartment. The sun shone on a path beyond and a westerly breeze wafted in the scent of box trees and rosemary growing on the terrace. Below, in a sunken garden, there were mulberries and fig trees. I could hear, in the lacunae of our conversation, the sea lapping at the wall.
"His chief fault," Agrippa said, "is his affectionate nature.
Often he allows it to dominate his intellect, warp his judgment. It's strange when he can be so ruthless at other times."
"Marcellus is very charming," I said. "It's no wonder that my stepfather is so fond of him."
"Yes," Agrippa said, "he's a delightful boy, isn't he?"
He got to his feet.
"We've said enough, haven't we? I'm glad it's you, not Marcellus, who is married to my daughter. Your mother is also concerned about the Princeps' fondness for the boy. She realises, like me, that it won't do for him to advance him further. Not too quickly. This isn't, as we agreed, a monarchy. We're a faction in power, a party. There are always those who would displace us if they could, like Caepio, whom you prosecuted so capably, and his friend Murena, and you know whose brother-in-law he was. That comes a bit near home. Marcellus sees too much of that bugger, my old friend Maecenas. That's enough, don't need to spell it out further, do I? One other thing. Remember: the basis of our power is the legions. Think you have the makings of a soldier. I'm bloody sure Marcellus hasn't."
I pondered that conversation.
A few weeks later Augustus fell ill. He was indeed near death. They said he raved in delirium. Livia fled from the chamber distressed by what he uttered in his madness. She retired to the Temple of Vesta to pray and sacrifice to the gods, that they might relent and restore her husband to health. In a brief moment of lucidity, fearing that he was on the point of death, he summoned Agrippa and Calpurnius Piso, who had replaced Murena as his consular colleague, and consigned to them the care of the Republic. A change of doctor and a change of treatment proved effective. He recovered and all was well.
But, though all was well, a secret had been revealed: the revolution he had accomplished depended on his life. The conspirators of the summer were posthumously justified. If they had killed Augustus, the regime would have crumbled.
It was for this reason that he remodelled it that autumn, obtaining a grant of maius imperium for himself from the Senate, and abandoning his practice of holding one of the consulships himself. More important, he associated Agrippa more closely in the government, granting him proconsular power over all the provinces of the empire, and, more important still, the tribunicia potestas, the tribunician power.
The will of Livia and Agrippa had prevailed over the inclinations of my stepfather. Marcellus was eclipsed. And that winter he died, suddenly.
5
Julia had miscarried as her husband died, thus cheating her father of the grandson he so greatly longed for. But his grief for Marcellus for a time blinded him to this other loss. That was excessive. To please him, Vergil would incorporate a reference to Marcellus in his Aeneid, ridiculously exaggerated, I'm afraid.
But a curious thing: Julia also appeared to be overcome by grief. This amazed me for I had doubted whether the child she was carrying and had lost, was indeed her husband's. (Indeed I wondered if it might be mine; it was possible.) Livia of course dismissed Julia's display of emotion as playacting, but she was naturally volatile and might have been sincere. Vipsania said to me that while she realised there had been difficulties between them, it was her impression that they had been agreeing better in the last months. That might indeed be true; Vipsania was a good judge of these matters. On the other hand, I knew, as she didn't, how close Marcellus had come to being singed by the conspiracy of the spring. He hadn't been directly involved, but the conspirators had been his friends. He had had a fright, and it may have seemed prudent to give the impression of devotion to his wife. After all, since his talents were slight, Marcellus depended absolutely on his uncle's favour.
You wonder how I knew of his involvement? In two ways. First, Fannius Caepio, under examination, tried to throw suspicion on him. I recognised this as a bargaining counter, when the "evidence" was brought before me in my capacity as prosecutor. Therefore I decided to have nothing to do with it and, to prevent any hint of the accusation from being brought before the court, I had it expunged from the record of the examination. But before I did so I confronted Marcellus with the charge. He came near to fainting. When I told him I didn't believe a word of it, and was going to make sure that Caepio's accusation didn't go any further, his relief and gratitude were pathetic, and repulsive. He fawned on me and I felt a certain thrill as I realised the depth of his terror and savoured the knowledge that he had confessed himself in every way my inferior. He hugged me with gratitude.
"How could he do such a thing to me?" he said again and again. "I've never even met him, except at a party."
"One of Maecenas' parties?" I asked.
It wasn't, however, only there that Marcellus had encountered the conspirators. This I learned from my second source.
One day while I was preparing the case against Caepio I received a message which puzzled me. Its substance was that its author had information relating to the case which he could only give me in person; however, he was reluctant to approach me openly. Now of course such messages are common in such circumstances, and my first inclination was to ignore it: if a man is frightened to give information openly, it is likely that he is untrustworthy and his evidence tainted. Yet I had an instinct that it might be otherwise on this occasion. I therefore consented to a secret meeting.
This took place, by night, in the back room of a low tavern in the maze of little streets between the Campus Martius and the river. Following instructions, I presented myself there heavily cloaked. The tavern was clearly a disreputable place, frequented by the scum of the city, prostitutes of both sexes and their panders. I was indeed glad that my face was concealed, and for a moment I wondered if I had been foolish to go there. However, I gave the password to the proprietor and was shown into the back room as arranged.
There was a man lying on a couch with a curly-headed boy sitting on his lap. Neither moved when I entered and I thought I had been deceived and was ready to burst out angrily. Then the man sat up, pushing the boy off.
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br /> "Time's up, darling," he said. "Fetch us wine."
He unfolded himself and rose to his feet.
"You're earlier than I expected, my lord," he said.
"I'm punctual."
"Oh dear, you are stiff."
He spoke with a lisp; a Greek a few years older than myself with scented ringleted hair and an effeminate manner. He was sweating, and smoothed his tunic and then busied himself sitting me at the table. The boy brought in some wine and departed with a saucy look over his shoulder. I felt a little sick.
"My name's Timotheus," the man said. "I do a lot of work for the Princeps, though you won't have heard of me, and I have a problem which I would like to discuss with you. It concerns the case with which you are occupied."
He smirked and wriggled his shoulders.
"I asked you here because I wanted to keep things dark. I'm in a quandary. I'm the Princeps' own agent and the information I have is such as I frankly don't dare to give him. Do you begin to see?"
"No, I don't. Perhaps you should begin at the beginning and stop talking in riddles."
"Riddles are often all it's safe to talk in these days."
"Listen," I said, "I am prosecuting in the case you refer to. If you have information then I can compel you — painfully — to divulge it."
He sipped his wine and pushed the jug across the table to me. I was surprised to see that I had already drunk my first cup. It was a sweet wine with a touch of resin, the sort of thing Greeks prefer.
"That wouldn't be wise," he said. "The Princeps would like that even less. He wouldn't want it to be known he employs types like me. Besides, I must tell you, if only to secure my position, that we began our connection in circumstances he wouldn't want to be recalled. Frankly, my dear, I know too much. So why don't you come off your high horse, and listen like a good boy? I'll begin at the beginning as you suggest."
His manner disgusted me. I longed to have him whipped; and yet I was curious. I raised my cup to my lips and nodded.
He told his story in an affected manner, with many digressions. But its essence was simple. He was a spy whose especial talent was what he described as provocation. "When I get a whiff of disaffection, I fan it…" The Princeps had been suspicious of his colleague, Murena, and had conveyed his suspicions to Timotheus, commanding an inv estigation. Timotheus had there fore introduced his agent into the consul's house, as a servant, "A regular Ganymede, you understand" — he fluttered his eyelashes at me. "But of course servants, however sweet, can't find out everything, though I let the Princeps think that all my information came from the boy." It didn't. He had also recruited a young nobleman called Fannius Cotta, a cousin of Caepio's. From his manner of talking I had no doubt that this Cotta was the wretch's lover. Cotta — who must, I thought, be practically half-witted to have fallen in with Timotheus' suggestion — had encouraged his cousin and the consul in their treason, all the while reporting every detail to the Greek. But now Cotta had been arrested with the other conspirators; I knew that of course, for I had arranged to examine him. "So?" I said.
The Greek dabbed at his eyes, as though his narration had moved him. He wanted Cotta set free; that was obvious.
"I have only your word for the part he played," I said. "And in view of what you say about your relations with him, I see no reason why I should believe you."
"But I think I can persuade you," he said. "I have a letter written by a certain gentleman not unconnected with the Princeps. It is addressed to Cotta and unkind men might interpret it as offering encouragement to the conspirators."
"I see."
And I did. I had no doubt to whom he referred.
"Why don't you offer it to the Princeps?"
"Don't be silly, my dear. I wouldn't dare. For one thing, he would think it a forgery. For another, that wouldn't help my friend. And for a third, I'm a Greek, a poor freedman, and… well, we Greeks have always had dealings with the Persians, and you know the Persian way of treating the bearer of bad news. It would be as much as my life is worth. But it seemed to me, regarding the relationships within the imperial family, that it might be of some use to you…"
"I disapprove of the term, 'the imperial family'. Such a thing doesn't exist, and is offensive even as an idea."
"As you like."
"Do you have the letter here?" "Don't be silly. I have a copy.. "
"You speak confidently for a man in your circumstances."
He smiled. "That's your interpretation," and thrust his hand down into his tunic and produced the letter.
"This could be interpreted in more than one way," I said.
"Either way would be damning, wouldn't it? But you see my dilemma, which I'm now sharing with you. I want to save my friend, but I can't possibly pass on that letter to the Princeps."
"Isn't it your fault for having concealed that he was working on your behalf to provoke the conspiracy?"
"Perhaps, but there it is."
I was naive of course. I saw that at once. Cotta was clearly a genuine conspirator, and perhaps his relations with the Greek had developed out of the conspiracy. Nevertheless I couldn't but admire the adroitness of the Greek's plan. And the letter was certainly — if indeed in Marcellus' own hand — damning. I would be pleased to have it. Arrangements, satisfactory to all parties, could therefore be made. I indicated as much.
"But I must still interrogate Cotta," I said. "You understand that? Nevertheless…"
Fannius Cotta was a tall, well-built young man with big eyes and a loose mouth. Terror had unmanned him, rendering him alternately sulky and abject. Twice during our conversation he threw himself down on his pallet bed sobbing. He wore a short tunic and the sweat sparkled on the back of his thighs as his shoulders heaved. He promised that he could incriminate Marcellus still further, if that was what I wanted.
"You mistake me," I said. "I want to bring this thing to an end. One means of doing so would be for you to meet with an unfortunate accident."
He threw himself on the ground before me, grabbing my ankles and begging for mercy.
"Get up," I said. "Have you no dignity?"
It went against my inclination, but I made arrangements for his release. I knew that Timotheus would destroy the letter rather than produce it if I broke our agreement. Loathsome though he was, I also realised that he had sufficient intelligence to have prepared for himself a defence against any action I might take to incriminate him. But I made two conditions: Cotta must leave Italy for a space of five years. He must never communicate with Marcellus. I issued threats, though I knew I would soon have no means of enforcing them. But I was certain that Cotta was such a coward that he would not dare to defy me.
I kept the letter secret. There might come a time in the future when it could be of more service to me than at the present. Timotheus' manner when he delivered it to me was disturbing: I saw that.
He had outwitted me. He had made me his accomplice in deception. Nevertheless he had put a weapon in my hand. I owed that to him.
Marcellus' death robbed me of the weapon, made it obsolete. I was still, however, in the Greek's debt.
One other thing: the doctor who treated Marcellus was one Antonius Musa, the same who had cured Augustus. He had been introduced to his household by Timotheus. A few years later he retired on account of ill-health and lived in a villa with Timotheus. Their conduct scandalised the local farmers, but Augustus protected them.
It was a pleasant irony to think how Timotheus had worked to destroy the Princeps' favourite, and how Musa may well have murdered him.
6
T here are those who believe that character is constant. We become, they would insist, only what we already are; we can never escape our inherent nature. Any change that may seem to take place only reveals traits which the person has previously thought it prudent to conceal; conversely, it may result from the assumption of a hypocritical virtue. This is an argument which must perplex philosophers, and one to which there can be no certain answer. For example, Augustus show
ed himself ruthless in the pursuit of power; he shrank from no cruelty that seemed to him necessary for the achievement of his aims. So he sacrificed his mentor, Marcus Tullius Cice ro, at the time of the proscrip tions. Though he knew that he owed him much, he judged it more necessary to conciliate Mark Antony by bowing to the hatred Antony entertained for the veteran orator than to insist that clemency be extended to the man whom even Julius had described as "an ornament of the Republic". Likewise, Augustus loved his sister Octavia with a warmth such as he offered to few. (Had she been less ostentatiously virtuous, I have no doubt that the scandalmongers would have had much to suggest as to the nature of their relationship.) Yet he sacrificed her happiness to the demands of his alliance with Antony, forcing her to accept that brutal drunkard as her husband. Those who adhere to the opinion that character is constant must ask whether Augustus forced himself to practise a cruelty that his nature abhors or has since assumed a virtue which is no more than a manifestation of his innate hypocrisy.
For my part, I find this view of human nature false and inadequate. It seems to me that on the one hand there are depths of our character which we do not understand, which perhaps we fear, and which sometimes surface to take us by surprise; and that on the other hand, we are in a condition of perpetual creation. Heraclitus, you will remember, posed the question whether a man could ever bathe twice in the same river. His disciples assert this is impossible; everything is in a state of flux, the river is changing before our eyes. Others however, whom I will term the Common Sense school of philosophers, think this mere casuistry. They say that though the water changes the river remains; the enduring is more real than the changes which they term superficial.
