by Allan Massie
It seems to me however that it is possible to grant justice to both arguments: to say that while everything changes, much that is contained in it remains the same. A man is always himself, but he is not necessarily the same man.
I am drawn into these reflections by memories of my marriage to Vipsania. I entered the marriage in obedience to my mother's wishes, understanding that her choice of my wife was politically astute. But I felt neither warmth nor enthusiasm. Moreover, in other respects, we were an awkward pair; Vipsania's chaste modesty made her as shy as my own reserve made me. Though we had known each other all our lives, we did not know how to converse. Perhaps we had never exchanged more than a few sentences over the years, and those of an insignificant sort. Now we were alone together as we had never been. Vipsania's submissiveness irritated me. She lay stiff in bed, the covers drawn up around her neck. I thought — how could I fail to? — of Julia caressing her thighs and drawing my gaze to her body. Vipsania received me as one having his will. Her sense of duty compelled her to yield to me, but as a victim, not a woman. For weeks we seemed frozen in immobility. I knew that she was unhappy and, being unhappy myself, resented her unhappiness. When I found her in tears, I was unable to take her in my arms.
I had no one to consult. The intensity of my relationship with Livia has always precluded discussion of emotional affairs. My brother Drusus, whom I loved for his spontaneity and virtue, would have been incapable of understanding my dilemma. Vipsania and I were locked in incomprehension of each other, both fearful to try to turn the key which anyway we did not perhaps recognise.
Yet now, more than twenty years later, I look back on the early days of our marriage with similar uncomprehending wonder. For everything changed. She became the medicine of my soul, the light towards which I turned. And I cannot say why or how. There was no single moment when the barriers yielded, no single moment when our personalities disarmed themselves. It was rather as if acquaintance made the ramparts crumble. Without my knowing it was happening, I was softened by her tenderness and virtue. The time came when the turn of her head, the cool touch of her flesh, her low voice, could appease any anxieties.
No doubt the birth of our son, young Drusus, contributed to this development. To see her with the baby in her arms, or leaning over his cradle lulling him to sleep with an old song, was to experience everything that over the centuries, it seems to me, men have come to desire; it was to feel myself enfolded in a love that was total.
Something else contributed to our developing intimacy: she respected my wish for secrecy. I have always felt uncomfortable with the expression of emotion, either by words or actions. She did not try to force my confidence, and in this way gradually won it.
Meanwhile Julia presented a problem. She believed she had a claim on me. She knew she could arouse me, and for that reason regarded me as her possession. My marriage meant nothing to her. "It's convenience, isn't it?" she would say; then, looking at me through her veil of eyelashes and touching her breast or stroking her thighs, "Of course, if you are going to take it seriously, it's an inconvenience. But only a trifling one. You couldn't prefer that insipid girl to me, could you?"
Put like that, she was quite right. Her body was to me as the wine-flask to the drunkard: a temptation that made me tremble. Half a dozen times, in the winter that followed Marcellus' death, I slipped into her bed, knew the intensity of delight, and then the pain of remorse and self-contempt. I have never been able to regard the sexual act as something from which emotion can be divorced.
Livia knew what was happening and reproached me. "You are weak," she said, "contemptibly weak. Do you want to destroy everything I had worked for on your behalf?" There was no answer to that. Shame locked my tongue. "Do you know," she said, "Augustus suggested to me that you should marry her? I soon put a stop to that. Besides, he must be mad to think of it, I said. How could he contemplate so offending Agrippa, by dishonouring his daughter? And now, you fool, you are risking just that. And for what? For a little honeypot that needs her bottom smacked."
At that time Julia's behaviour stopped just short of being scandalous. All the same the spy Timotheus approached me, having, as he said, my best interests at heart. I wasn't Julia's only lover; she was the centre of a coterie of young nobles, some of whom, he said, had "dangerous antecedents". I would do well to be careful.
He left behind him a lingering scent of attar of roses and the more enduring stench of moral corruption.
I was alarmed. I couldn't trust myself near Julia. I had the sense to put in for an attachment to the armies.
I was assigned to Spain where the hill tribes were in revolt. There is no glory in such warfare, which is a species of police action. Yet it is the best training for a young officer: it teaches him the true purpose of the army, which is the preservation of Rome and all that is meant by Roman order. Furthermore, in such campaigns, he learns the importance of care for his men. That is the first rule of generalship: that the troops are properly fed, clothed, armed and housed. We recruit soldiers and invite them to risk death in defence of fat taxpayers. The least we can do in return is to attend to the conditions in which they have condemned themselves to live. Show me the general w ho does not put his men's welfa re first, and I shall show you a man dominated by vanity. I have never pretended to military genius, yet I have been successful because I have never neglected my men, have never moved in defiance of intelligence reports, and have never forgotten that the soldiers have entrusted me with their lives. It is a responsibility which some commanders delight to ignore.
Wherever I campaigned, I built roads. The road, which is unknown to barbarians, is the sign of Rome, civilisation and empire. It is by roads that the empire is joined together, by roads that trade is carried, by roads that barbarian tribes are subjugated. Wherever you seek the majesty of Rome, there you will find the road.
A letter from my mother:
Beloved son,
We hear good reports of your industry and efficiency. Bear in mind that you are a Claudian, and as such superior to all; therefore it behoves you to do men service. It is to accomplish this that the gods have created a superior breed of men.
The problem of Julia is solved. Amazingly it was Maecenas who persuaded your stepfather of the best course of action. She is to wed Agrippa. There, I knew that would take you by surprise. It will be strange for you to welcome her as your mother-in-law. But it is for the best. He may be able to control her. Moreover, it is prudent to bind him still more firmly in love and obligation to your stepfather. Believe me, great men like Agrippa are always subject to the temptation of ambition. All the more so, when they are not well born.
Vipsania tells me that she intends to winter with you in Gades. I am delighted to hear it. It is not good for husband and wife to dwell long apart. Moreover, I know only too well the temptations of the camp.
You have a difficult nature, my dear son. You require the support of a loving and virtuous wife.
I have always known that. It is why I promoted your marriage to Vipsania who is everything a mother could desire in her son's wife. I speak of her personal qualities. Despite her father's distinction, her birth would have disqualified her in normal times. But the times are not normal, and never will be again.
Both Augustus and I ar e in good health. A letter from Vi psania:
Dearest husband,
I look forward eagerly to being with you. I have missed you. I do not dare to ask whether you have missed me, yet because I trust you, I hope that you have.
You will have heard the news about my father and Julia. It is very strange, but may work out well. Of course I am sorry for my mother who has had to be divorced. But she is well compensated, and, to tell the truth, has seen so little of my father in recent years that I think it likely she will feel the dishonour, but not the desertion. And, as you know, she is a devoted gardener, and the creation of her gardens on the Bay has been her chief interest. "Nobody," she once said to me, "can be unhappy planting flowers…"
Julia was furious when the match was first proposed. You can guess why. But she is now reconciled to it. She realises that my father is a great man.
"I am not going to ask you about Julia," Agrippa said to me, "because I don't think I would like the answer. But she'll behave herself now, you'll see. What she needs is authority…"
I didn't see her for two years
7
It is not my intention in this brief memoir to dilate at length on my military exploits. I have observed that there is a sameness in accounts of campaigns and that it is almost impossible to differentiate between one year's service and the next. Indeed they blur in my mind. Yet in as much as the greater part of my adult life, till I retreated into philosophic retirement, has been passed in camps, completely to ignore my memories of soldiering would give a misleading picture of my life.
Yet I write this in no expectation of being read. Indeed in the hope that I will not. I write for my own satisfaction, in pursuit of my personal enquiry into the nature of truth; in an attempt to answer the two perplexing questions: what manner of man am I? What have I done with my life?
When my mind drifts back now, it is images rather than a coherent narrative which present themselves to me: mist rising from horse lines in the thin keen wind of a morning by the Danube; long marches, the men ankle-deep in mud behind creaking waggons, as the beech and ash woods of Germany enfold us; a hill-top in Northern Spain, when snow fell below us in the valleys but we lay on dry, iron-hard ground under the stars; grizzled centurions lashing at the transport horses, yelling at the legionaries to put their shoulder to a wheel that was spinning as if in mockery of their efforts; a boy with blood oozing from his mouth as I rested his dying head on my arm and watched his leg kick; my horse flinching from a bush which parted to reveal a painted warrior, himself gibbering with terror; the sigh of the wind coming off a silent sea; the tinkle of the camel bell across desert sands. Army life is a mere collection of moments.
My first independent command was, however, glorious. I use the word in full awareness that it can rarely be employed without irony, even if the understanding of the irony is reserved to the gods.
Everyone knows that the greatest power in the world after Rome is Parthia. This vast empire extending to the boundaries of India, and influential beyond them, is fortunately divided from us by a wide and inhospitable desert. It was in that desert that the millionaire triumvir, Marcus Crassus, seeking to emulate the glory of his colleagues Caesar and Pompey, suffered, thanks to his vanity and ineptitude, the greatest disaster ever to befall Roman arms. His troops were cut to pieces at Carrhae, all killed except those taken prisoner, his standards captured, and he himself slain. (His head was thrown on to the stage of the theatre in which the Parthian Emperor was watching a performance of The Bacchae.) Later Mark Antony led another expedition against Parthia, meeting with almost equal disaster.
The desert divides the two empires, but in the north the kingdom of Armenia serves as a buffer between them. In race and culture the Armenians are closely allied to the Parthians, a similarity which deepens the hatred they feel for them. But Armenia is of great strategic importance, for it thrusts itself like a dagger into each of the two empires. It is in Rome's interest to control it, since by that means we can defend the security of our empire; but the same consideration applies in reverse to Parthia. Therefore the domination of Armenia is the chief point of dispute between the empires, and a matter of prime importance to Rome.
This Augustus recognised. I have remarked before that his acuity was admirable whenever he was able to disengage his intellect from personal affections. Now it happened, when I was twenty-two, that King Artaxes of Armenia was assassinated by his fellow countrymen, whom he had shamefully abused. Roman help was sought. I was surprised to be put in command.
"I have no fear as to your capabilities," Augustus said. "Besides, these Orientals are all easily impressed by position. They will know you are my son…"
I was intoxicated by the clear air of the mountains, the vigour of the highlanders, the beauty of the young women. I was revolted by the untruthfulness displayed by all with whom I had dealings. There was not a single man on whose word you could rely. We took advantage of the confusion of the situation to install the late king's brother, Tigranes, on the throne. He was a loathsome fellow who slept by choice with his sister, but he owed everything to us, and his terror of the Parthians and of his own subjects was such that he agreed willingly to the establishment of a legion in his capital. Meanwhile the position in Parthia itself was almost equally confused, for the coup d 'etat in Armenia had inspired an attempt there also. It so happened that the emperor's son had been sent to Rome as a hostage some years previously. I now called for him, and entered into negotiations with his father. They were prolonged, as negotiations with Orientals always are.
My purpose was adamant, and my understanding had been clarified in my journey through Syria. I saw how this rich and populous province depended utterly on the security provided by the legions. We had a garrison of four legions, more than twenty thousand men, held on standing watch, besides auxiliary troops scattered about the peel-towers which protected the crossings of the great river, Euphrates. Behind us lay Antioch, the sweetest city in the world, men said, with its flowered palaces, its streets lit even by night, its perpetual fountains, its marts and emporia. No one who has stood gazing over the black waters of the Euphrates, seeing the moon sink behind distant mountain ranges, can avoid feeling the majesty and benevolence of Rome.
My purpose was one of reparation. There was an old stain to be expunged. When the Parthian diplomats prevaricated, I swept the documents from the table before me and insisted. Phraates' son would not be restored. Instead, using Armenia as a base, which would enable me to avoid the desert route, I would strike deep down the river valleys into the heart of Parthia: unless I had my way.
My demands were simple. First, my settlement of Armenia would be recognised, and, as an earnest of their good intentions, new hostages would be delivered to me. Second, and more important, the standards taken at Carrhae would be restored.
Some may wonder why this was more important. Such questioners do not understand the Oriental mind, which is even more profoundly moved by symbols. These standards were the mark of Rome's failure, disgrace, inferiority on a particular historical occasion. By receiving them back, that memory would be wiped out, that emblem overthrown. I am not ashamed to confess that Augustus himself had insisted on the importance of my demand, had enlightened me as to the manner in which Orientals think.
At last, alarmed, they gave way. Having done so, they revealed something of which we were ignorant.
This is a curious trait of Orientals: when their obstinacy crumbles and they determine to let you have your way, their submission is complete, they go beyond what is necessary to do, believing that they thereby recover what they call "face" by laying you under an obligation. So their ambassador, a lean fellow whose name I forget, though I remember his oiled ringlets and the odour of mint which was diffused about him, said with a leer: "There are certain human trophies to be returned also."
I did not understand him immediately, but he clapped his hands, and a slave-boy departed to return after a few minutes leading a group of old men, several of whom at the sight of the Parthian lord fell to their knees.
"They have learned who their masters are," the ambassador said, "but now that there is peace and tranquillity between our two great empires, it is time that they should go home."
They looked up as if expecting a trick. They were soldiers from Crassus' army, men who had spent almost forty years in slavery. They crowded round me, babbling. I later discovered that three of them had forgotten the use of Latin. They hailed me as their benefactor, and this embarrassed me. I did not feel like a benefactor. On the contrary, in an obscure fashion, I felt guilty, and that guilt has remained with me ever since. We initiate great campaigns, and call mighty armies into being for a public purpose that even we who initiate i
t barely understand. Our own soldiers are our victims. These men had been deprived of life, even more surely than if they had been killed, for they had retained through the years a consciousness of what they had lost, and the principal cause of this robbery was Marcus Crassus' determination to show that he was as great a man as his colleagues Caesar and Pompey… So I made arrangements for them to be returned home and to be settled on land in a veterans' colony in Basilicata. But I have never forgotten them, nor forgotten that war is a terrible necessity. Its triumphs, which I have enjoyed as proper to one of my station and achievements, are illusory. Its disasters are real. There is almost no more to be said about war. I hope never to be involved in it again. I expect to pass the rest of my life here in Rhodes, enjoying the pleasures of the mind, the conversation of intelligent men, and the beauties of the sea and landscape.
8
No wise man risks incurring the anger of the gods by neglect of religious duties and observances which are properly binding on us. It is well known that the great Scipio was wont to have the shrine of Jupiter Capitolinus unlocked before dawn so that he might enter and commune in solitude — in holy solitude as he would say himself — with the god about affairs of state. The guard-dogs, which barked at other visitors, always treated him with respect. We know also that certain places are in the charge of particular gods; that certain hours of day are propitious for particular actions; and that the wise man invariably consults the gods in order to discover whether they approve a given course of action.
