When Octavian learned of this, he unscrupulously used it as a means of criticizing Antony. It was unheard-of and offensive for a Roman general to hold a triumph anywhere except in Rome. Evidence was building up that, in some way, Antony was going native—cutting loose from his romanitas, his Romanness, and behaving more and more like a grand Hellenistic monarch.
In fact, Antony seems to have been staging an exotic eastern spectacle, not mimicking a triumph. Rather than dressing as a Roman general, he presented himself as a human version of Dionysus. His head was bound with an ivy wreath, his body was enveloped in a robe of saffron and gold; he held the thyrsus (a fennel stalk topped with a pinecone or vine or ivy leaves, which Dionysus’ followers carried) and wore buskins (the raised boots used by actors in plays staged at the festival of Dionysus in Athens). He was reported as riding in the “Bacchic chariot”; this was traditionally drawn by big cats, such as leopards or panthers. By identifying himself with an appropriate divinity, Antony was merely continuing his policy of establishing a public persona that would appeal to the inhabitants of the eastern provinces.
A few days later, he presided over an even more unusual ceremony, which came to be known as the Donations of Alexandria. It took place in the city’s great Gymnasium, a splendid colonnaded building for athletic training and lectures on philosophy. A silver-gleaming dais with two golden thrones was erected, either in the open air in the palaistra (, “exercise ground”) or in the Gymnasium’s largest covered space, reserved for ball games and called the sphairisterion (). Antony and Cleopatra, who was dressed as the goddess Isis, seated themselves on the thrones. Caesarion, now aged thirteen, was officially Ptolemy XV Caesar and Cleopatra’s co-ruler (for a woman was not allowed to reign alone). He and the queen’s children by Antony sat on lower thrones.
When everyone had arrived and settled into their places, Antony stood up and delivered an address. Cleopatra, he said, had been married to Julius Caesar, and so Ptolemy Caesar was his legitimate son. This preposterous claim was aimed at undermining Octavian’s position. It ignored the existence of Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, and of the Roman avoidance of marriage to foreigners. Perhaps what Antony had in mind was another symbolic or heavenly union between two gods.
He then proceeded to shower Cleopatra and the children with honors and territories. Alexander was to receive Armenia, Media, and all the land to the east as far as India—in other words, the as yet unconquered Parthian empire. Little Ptolemy Philadelphus was to become king of all the Syrian territories already awarded to Cleopatra, and overlord of the client kingdoms of Asia Minor. Cleopatra Selene, Alexander’s twin sister, received Cyrenaica (the eastern half of today’s Libya, abutting Egypt) and the island of Crete. Caesarion was declared king of kings, and Cleopatra (the mother) queen of kings.
At about this time, Antony issued a coin, a silver denarius, which graphically illustrated his partnership with Egypt’s female pharaoh. One side showed Antony’s bare head, and behind it the royal tiara of Armenia, with the message “Antony, after the conquest of Armenia.” Scandalously for Roman currency, which never depicted foreigners, the head of Cleopatra, diademed and with jewels in her hair, was on the other side, accompanied by the prow of a ship. The inscription read: “To Cleopatra, queen of kings and of her sons who are kings.”
What strategy underlay the Donations of Alexandria? Antony has not shared his ideas with posterity, and the literary sources mainly regurgitate the Octavian version. So we can only speculate.
It is important to be clear what Antony was not doing. He was not giving the eastern half of the Roman empire away for good to Cleopatra and her brood of little Ptolemies. This was no abdication. As triumvir and commander of the armies of Rome, Antony remained the ultimate authority, and behind him stood the Senate and people of Rome. What he gave, he could take back.
The Donations were in line with the thinking that underlay Antony’s previous reorganization of the east. That is, it was far easier to allow locals to manage most of the eastern provinces on behalf of Rome, administering justice and raising taxes, than for the imperial authorities to do it. The Romans being unsupported by a permanent civil service, this would save them a world of trouble, as well as helping to solve the problem of rapacious public officials. The empire would be far more stable if its inhabitants did not feel that they were under foreign occupation.
However, unkind commentators, both at the time and later, saw something more alarming. A large part of the east, Antony’s allocated territory as triumvir, was being gathered together into a single monarchy, with Antony as emperor and Cleopatra as empress. Their long-term aim, it was suggested, was to overthrow Rome. Rumor assiduously put it about that the queen’s favorite oath was “so surely as I shall one day give judgement on the Capitol.”
This is implausible. Antony had a conventional mind that could not imagine an end to Roman dominion, and Cleopatra was too much of a realist to wish for more than the reassertion of Egypt as the dominant power in the eastern Mediterranean, under Roman protection. Most probably, the Donations were a symbolic gesture, a way of settling public opinion in the east and marshaling it behind Antony as Dionysus/Osiris and Cleopatra as Isis/Aphrodite. In fact, few if any practical changes were noticeable on the ground in Syria, or Cappadocia, Pontus, or Galatia. Hordes of Egyptian administrators did not spread through the Middle East, replacing local authorities and Roman officials and tax farmers.
It is hard to disagree with the sentiments that the great twentieth-century Alexandrian poet Constantine Cavafy attributed to the audience at that glittering ceremony in the Gymnasium.
And the Alexandrians thronged to the festival
Full of enthusiasm, and shouted acclamations,
In Greek, and Egyptian, and some in Hebrew,
Charmed by the lovely spectacle—
Though they knew of course what all this was worth,
What empty words they really were, these kingships.
XIII
THE PHONY WAR
33–31 B.C.
* * *
Trials were conducted here in the open air, senators met and debated in the Senate House, citizens’ assemblies were convened in an open space called the Comitia. Money could be borrowed in the Forum, and prostitutes bought. Statues of famous statesmen stood on columns, and large paintings illustrated Roman victories. Down the Forum’s long sides stood two basilicas, which combined the functions of shopping mall and conference center.
With the Second Triumvirate and Octavian’s growing domination of the political scene, a gradual change could be detected. Politics moved from the noisy open square up to a complex of houses on the fashionable Palatine Hill, where Octavian and Livia lived and worked. From “Palatine” derives the word “palace,” meaning that enclosed space where autocrats make decisions in private.
Today the Palatine is a quiet, almost pastoral spot, overshadowed by tall maritime pines. A short but brisk climb from the Forum leads to the summit of the hill, a flat area pockmarked with ruins, some of them protected from the weather by modern roofs. The top of the Palatine is a maze of shaded lanes and hidden corners.
To the northwest stand the buildings where Octavian and Livia spent most of their lives. In 36 B.C., a grateful popular assembly voted that a house should be presented to him at public expense. Octavian had already bought an expensive property at the southwest end of the Palatine Hill, but it had been struck by lightning—an omen that persuaded him to demolish the unlucky building and replace it with a temple to Apollo. With his grant from the Senate, he arranged the purchase of a house, or more accurately a group of houses, next door.
The location was chosen with great care, for Octavian wanted his residence to signal and embody his role in the commonwealth. Near it stood a hut, built on the hill’s natural tufa and with a sloping thatched roof, its reed walls daubed in clay. This was said to be the home of Romulus, Rome’s founder, and was carefully preserved in his honor. By closely associating himself with Rome’s beginning
s, Octavian was telling the Roman world that he stood for traditional values, for mos maiorum, the customs of ancestors.
There was no question about it in anyone’s mind: Rome did not look like the capital of a great empire. Over the centuries, the city had grown untidily and organically. There were no broad avenues and few open spaces, apart from the Forum and the forum boarium. Few streets were wide enough to allow vehicles to pass one another and most of them were unpaved. (In the daytime there was no wheeled transport, for, in an attempt to eliminate daytime traffic jams, Julius Caesar had restricted it to the hours after dark; the night clattered with the cacophony of wooden carts.) Projecting balconies and upper rooms sometimes nearly touched one another.
The rich lived in houses with no outside windows, so that it was possible (as in traditional Arab town houses) to escape the urban hubbub; rooms were grouped around one or more open-air courtyards. The poor rented single rooms or crowded into multistory apartment blocks, or insulae. These were often jerry-built and liable to fire or collapse.
Shops lined many of the main streets, but they were usually no more than a ground-floor room with a masonry or wooden counter for selling goods and a space at the back for stock. All kinds of goods were on display—jewelry, clothing and fabrics, pots and pans, and books. There were numerous bars and restaurants, catering mainly to people from the lower classes, whose houses did not have properly equipped kitchens.
Rome was a city of horrible smells. Rubbish and sewage, even, occasionally, human corpses, were tipped into the street. Passersby were so often hit by the contents of chamber pots emptied from the second floor or the roof that laws were passed regulating the damages that could be claimed.
City life was made bearable only by the ready availability of water. Four aqueducts (the first of them built in the fourth century B.C.), high arcades, strode across the land, bringing fresh, clean water from springs and lakes miles away. The water was piped to fountains, some of them no more than stone troughs, in the small public squares that dotted Rome. The rich and famous could obtain the Senate’s permission to tap the pipes. Ordinary citizens collected water from the nearest fountain or had it delivered by a water seller.
This abundance of water made possible one of Rome’s most popular pastimes, going to the public baths. These received their own supply and were much like modern Turkish baths or hammams. The price of entry was so small that everyone except the poorest could afford it. Many Romans would go to the baths every day, often in the early afternoon, after work and before the evening meal. Here they could meet friends and exchange gossip.
In 33, Octavian and Agrippa were back in Rome from Illyricum. How could they give the regime legitimacy, they asked themselves, how persuade public opinion that, after the long years of division, bloodshed, and power politics, Octavian meant to govern in the people’s interest, not just his own?
They found an answer in their run-down megalopolis. Investment in public buildings and services would achieve three useful purposes. First, it would improve the city’s grandeur, making its appearance worthy of its role as the capital of the known world. Second, the quality of life of Rome’s volatile citizenry would be enhanced. Third, the refurbishment of the city’s architectural heritage would be the first concrete illustration of Octavian’s commitment to restoring Rome’s antique values. An appeal to the old ways was a powerful means of sweetening the revolutionary nature of the Triumvirate.
Octavian called on his generals to signal their successes in the field by restoring one or another Roman landmark at their personal expense. They embellished temples and basilicas, and on the Campus Martius the extremely competent commander Titus Statilius Taurus built Rome’s first stone amphitheater.
But a diet of visually splendid grands projets was not enough. The average inhabitant of Rome must feel some personal benefit from these public works.
In 33 B.C., Agrippa took up the post of aedile—an unusual step, even a self-demotion, for he had already served as consul, the state’s highest post.
One of an aedile’s duties was to look after the city’s water supply, street cleaning, and drains; Agrippa reorganized and refurbished the aqueduct system. He also commissioned a new aqueduct, the Aqua Julia (some years later he added the Aqua Virgo, so called because a young girl pointed out springs to the soldiers who were hunting for water). He had five hundred fountains built as well as magnificent public baths, the Thermae Agrippae. The reservoirs and the fountains, or nymphaea, were elaborately decorated, with many bronze and marble statues and pillars. Agrippa also repaired and cleansed Rome’s underground drainage system.
The regime’s bid for popularity was unrelenting. During his aedileship, Agrippa distributed olive oil and salt and arranged for the city’s 170 baths to open free of charge throughout the year. He presented many festivals, and because those attending were expected to look smart he subsidized barbers to offer their services gratis. At public entertainments, tickets good for money and clothes were thrown to the crowds. Also, massive displays of many kinds of goods were set up and made available free on a first come, first served basis. All these measures were paid for from the fortune Agrippa had amassed (from war booty, legacies, and grants of land and money) during his ten years of working and fighting for Octavian.
Agrippa’s aedileship signaled in the most attractive and practical way that prosperous times were back. Agrippa’s investments in Rome’s infrastructure (to say nothing of the public buildings constructed or restored by other leading members of the regime) greatly enhanced its appearance. The construction work also provided welcome jobs in a city with a high rate of unemployment. While the other, long-absent triumvir was squandering time in the east, everyone could see the concrete advantages that Octavian’s regime was bringing to the ordinary citizen.
Octavian was ready for a showdown with Antony. His career since his acceptance of his legacy from Julius Caesar makes complete sense only if it is understood as a careful and undeviating pursuit of absolute power. A typically competitive and ambitious Roman, he wanted that power for himself; he was the heir of Rome’s greatest sole ruler since the expulsion of King Tarquin the Proud in the sixth century B.C., and it was only what he deserved. But Octavian also despised the incompetent and unruly selfishness of the ruling class, epitomized by the destructive and pointless policies of Fulvia and Lucius Antonius, that had led to the Perusian war; Sextus Pompeius’ absence of policy; and Mark Antony’s loss of discipline and focus. With respect to the latter, one senses a dismissive scorn for an older colleague who ought to have known better, and who had, in Octavian’s view, “failed to conduct himself as befitted a Roman citizen.”
Step by step, Octavian had built up his strength over the years, seizing every chance that came his way. The Illyrian campaign was the last piece of the puzzle: it gave him the military status he had so conspicuously lacked. Agrippa’s rebuilding of Rome was a sign that he and his supporters were planning a long-term strategy for the empire’s governance. However, if matters were not brought to a head now, the initiative might well pass back to Antony, especially if he finally scored a substantive victory over the Parthians and covered himself in glory.
The Triumvirate’s second term was due to end in December 33 B.C., and it would be in Octavian’s interest to avoid any risk of an amicable renewal, for that would freeze a status quo he wanted to terminate. He was in as strong a position as he would ever be.
In 33 B.C., Octavian was consul for the second time. Early in the year he delivered a blistering speech against his fellow triumvir. He criticized Antony’s activities in the east: Antony had had no right to kill Sextus Pompeius, whom he would willingly have spared, and Antony had been wrong to trick the Armenian king into captivity. This behavior had damaged Rome’s good name.
Octavian also attacked Antony’s cruel treatment of Octavia and his relationship with Cleopatra. The Donations of Alexandria were unacceptable. Even more offensive, seeing that it was clearly aimed at undermining Octavian’s posi
tion as Julius Caesar’s heir, was Antony’s promotion of young Ptolemy Caesar, or Caesarion, as the great dictator’s natural son.
Little of this was very convincing in itself. It strains credulity that Octavian had a soft spot for Sextus or cared a sesterce for the fate of a far-off country of which most people knew nothing. And as for Antony’s sexual life, it had always been colorful.
Pamphlets and letters were published, and envoys traveled assiduously between Rome and Alexandria making claim and counterclaim. Antony huffily stood his ground. He complained that he had been prevented from raising troops in Italy, as had been freely agreed; that his veterans had not received their fair share of lands on demobilization; that, after defeating Sextus Pompeius, Octavian had taken over Sicily without consulting him; and that Lepidus had been arbitrarily deposed.
Antony’s case was stronger than that of Octavian, who had consistently been an untrustworthy partner. Whenever compromise or concessions were needed, it was always the older and more reasonable triumvir who had given way. But some of the issues he raised were no more than debating points; for example, Sicily was in the western half of the empire, and once captured would naturally have fallen to Octavian.
The accusations grew more and more personal. Octavian castigated his colleague’s drunkenness. He also made fun of Antony’s high-flown and overelaborate use of Latin; he was “a madman, for writing to be admired rather than understood,” who introduced into “our tongue the verbose and unmeaning fluency of the Asiatic orators.”
Antony gave as good as he got. He ridiculed Octavian’s provincial ancestry and accused him of lustfulness, cruelty, and cowardice (for instance, the scandalous fancy-dress party that Octavian had attended as the god Apollo, and his curious behavior when he hid in the marshes at Philippi, were unkindly exhumed). Antony also made an angry charge, very probably with good reason, of sexual hypocrisy:
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