Augustus: Son of Rome
Richard Foreman
© Richard Foreman 2012
Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.
Table of Contents
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32.
Endnote
1.
The house was situated just outside of Apollonia, a Macedonian coastal town. But the architecture and character of the building were deliberately Roman. The expansive rectangular villa was of a single storey with few windows. The exterior was austere, but upon entering the house one would have been impressed by a picturesque atrium. Sunlight wafted down upon the feathery breeze illuminating much of the courtyard and the ornate mosaics which adorned the interior.
The famous owner of the house, who had still to visit his new property, had given a swift nod of assent to the blueprints and cost of the estate during a brief pause from which his intelligent eyes perused the map of some distant, supposedly barbaric land.
An unforgiving saffron sun, thankfully tempered by merciful coastal winds, bleached the coral-white walls of the house and baked the grasslands which encircled the property like an emerald moat. Upon a patch of this lawn sat two adolescents, conversing and playing with the brittle grass in their fingers.
The dusky skinned youths were similarly aged, but of dramatically differing builds.
The first boy, as lean as the poplar trunks in the background, was Rufus Salvidienus - the son of the quaestor for the region. His father, who considered himself as shrewd as he was ambitious, had encouraged his son to make friends with their auspicious new neighbours as soon as the family moved to the province. At first the aristocratic Rufus baulked at the idea of forcing a friendship. He believed that he might have to act subserviently to the youth with his great uncle’s name, but little noble blood himself. But what at first was set as a politic task soon became an effortlessly enjoyable one.
With his sharp jaw and beak nose Rufus was often nicknamed ‘the hawk’ - a colourful title which at various times the boy and later man would be proud, teased and ashamed of. The youth’s long glossy black hair, which he frequently fingered as if he were a courtesan, was also a source of ridicule and vanity to the patrician.
The second youth, broad shouldered - and broadly smiling - was one Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.
Gusts of laughter could occasionally be heard from the two youngsters upon the lawn as they waited for their friend. The reason for his delay was due to yet another disagreement between son, mother and step-father. Again the adolescent, after trying to be reasonable, was near to throwing a tantrum about him not wanting to be accompanied by a personal bodyguard. The young master of the house eventually got his way and the family sat down to breakfast as if the argument had not taken place. The meandering conversation between the two waiting companions was eventually manipulated by Rufus towards the subject of politics - a subject that the youth was hopeful of making a career in one day. The innate Republican knew exactly what to say to stimulate and rile the ardent Caesarian and would-be centurion. It amused Salvidienus to antagonise the passionate Agrippa who, albeit being his friend, he duly considered to be his intellectual and social inferior.
“The Senate is Rome,” Rufus pronounced, not without a modicum of conceit and self-appointed authority.
“What has the Senate ever done for the glory of Rome?” Marcus Agrippa replied, expressing a certain derision and even bewilderment in his tone.
“The Senate has tried to maintain that which is the glory of Rome - the Law.”
“The Law is but a means to a senator’s true end, self-interested profit and power. As he said the other day,” Marcus Agrippa remarked as he motioned his head towards the house (“he” being their tardy friend), “justice goes to the highest bidder in Rome. He who can afford the most expensive advocate invariably wins the case. Truth has become tautologous.”
“But too much has changed,” exclaimed the son of the zealous optimate - quoting his father. At the same time a solemn looking Rufus Salvidienus also shook his head, in objection and pity, as if to stress the sincerity of his argument. The would-be senator had seen the technique used by an advocate during a visit to Rome a few years back.
“I would argue too little.”
“Now you are just being contrary.”
“No, I’m not.”
And with that the two teenagers smiled and simultaneously launched what blades of grass they held in their hands at each other in playfulness. A short burst of laughter from them then echoed its way up the contoured slope and reached the ears of their companion, Gaius Octavius. For most of his teens Octavius had been a slight and sickly child, but the boy had owned the motivation to toughen himself up after spending some time on campaign with his great-uncle around a year ago. His face was tanned, but his skin and hair were still fairer than that of the two other Roman youths. His expression was sometimes broody, sometimes tranquil, and sometimes ironic - but as with now his usually serious mien could dramatically transform itself and his features could become amiable, engaging and not a little handsome.
His face was screwed up from squinting in the sunlight and from biting upon, and visibly enjoying, a crust of bread smeared in honey. Rufus and Marcus Agrippa shielded their eyes from the late morning sun as their companion descended upon them.
“Late again,” issued Agrippa, sighing and comically rolling his eyes to his best friend.
“Up all night again? Were you reading, or just thinking about Briseis?” Salvidienus chipped in with a lewd expression plastered on his face. Briseis was a Greek servant girl within the household who Octavius had seduced and bedded a week before. Or rather one could argue that the alluring, experienced Briseis had seduced the lusty young Roman master of the house. The enamoured seducer had told his friends about the episode just to tell them, for they were his close companions, but perhaps more so he had recounted the experience in order to boast and make his friends feel jealous of him.
“Reading,” Octavius replied with a wry smile, as well as a blush - lying slightly. For the most part however the conscientious student had been up all night - to the point where the dawn had eclipsed his lamp as a reading light - annotating notes from the texts that his part-time tutor, Cleanthes, had lent to his pupil from his private library. His ivory coloured tunic was clean, but plain and devoid of any ostentation or accessory, which marked out his family’s status and wealth. There was a self-confidence, but not swagger, to his easy gait.
“Well I hope you also got some rest. Our Master said we are having a special lesson today,” Marcus Agrippa said with relish in his eyes, excited as he was by the prospect of what their fencing teacher, an ex-legionary, had in store for their class this afternoon.
Salvidienus briefly smiled, trying but unable to share his pugilistic friend’s attitude. He then got up, adjusting his tunic and smoothing his hair, to follow his classmate down the slope and out of the gates of the estate.
Octav
ius’ initial reaction to the prospective lesson was one of feigned disinterest. He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrow at his friend to affect being bored by, or above, such news. But when Agrippa’s back was turned the wry smile disintegrated into an apprehensive frown. He realised the importance of the lessons, and there were times when Octavius tried to apply himself to the old legionary’s instruction, but the thought regularly clouded the young Roman’s mood that he was just not born to be a soldier. “You cannot put in what the Gods have left out,” his step-father had once remarked. As a thing in itself this might not have worried the would-be philosopher, but the sense of failure troubled him because he imagined that it gave credence to the whispered arguments that Gaius Octavius was not a true Caesar.
2.
A line of shrubbery, dotted with poisonous berries, fenced off the property from the neighbouring villas. Where the flanking estates housed gardens or pens for various livestock outside their villas though, there resided, at the front of Tiro Casca’s modest property, a large circle - or “arena” as he called it - of sand and gravel. Rumour had it - rumours which the laconic proprietor neither confirmed nor denied - that the old Roman soldier had campaigned with both Pompey in Spain and Caesar in Long-Haired Gaul - and that he had killed more men than cholera. Some even reported that, before joining the army, Casca had been a famous gladiator who had won his freedom. Or rather, Crassus had bought it. His “war was now over” however. The ex-legionary, despite often pining for his beloved Rome, had retired to the Macedonian province, establishing a school for combat and athletics for the area’s privileged Roman and Greek youth.
A receding crop of dusty brown hair, flecked with grey, crowned an ageing but still strong-jawed face. The grizzled soldier’s skin was as leathery as the bloodied, cracked breastplate which Casca had proudly mounted upon his bedroom wall. His build was still stocky, with his arms, shoulders and legs as muscular and supple as a man half his fifty-five years of age. His ever expanding waistline however, forcing his belt to cut into his hips sometimes, betrayed the old soldier’s fondness for red meat, washed down with undiluted red wine - which was as strong as it was sour. Like its vintner.
Having lost one of his front teeth in a battle some years ago, and chipping the other in a tavern brawl, there was a strange, almost comical sibilance to his voice - although people were fearful enough of the gnarled veteran not to comment about the minor affliction. Casca was an unapologetic disciplinarian, as well as an excellent teacher, and his students duly felt a mixture of fear and respect when in his presence. The fencing master was not without a sense of humour though, and his raucous cackle was unmistakable. But for the most part his demeanour was stern, as though Casca thought ill of everyone he encountered until they could prove him wrong. The scowling, former legionary breathed heavily through his nostrils, bushy with nose hair, almost snorting. He then addressed his class again for the day.
“So far I have taught you ladies basic swordsmanship. Today I’m going to teach you how to fight. If nothing else you’ll learn how the two things are somewhat different animals.”
Octavius had just recovered his breath. For the first half an hour of the session Casca had instructed Agrippa, who was a kind of prefect for the class, to have the pupils warm up. Stretching exercises were succeeded by a run. The scorching heat had sapped Octavius’ body as much as the exertion. An all too brief interlude had followed in which the perpetually unimpressed tutor allowed his students to drink a ladle of warm water, each from the stone trough which was situated next to the house.
The twenty youths stood to attention in two rows of ten, wooden practise swords (tipped with padded leather) in their hands. Sweat trickled down Octavius’ face, his temples seeming to be a magical font for the stuff, and his heart began to beat that much faster as he stood in the front rank. For a fleeting second after Casca had spoken, Octavius caught his intimidating tutor’s eye - an act which usually presaged him picking out the student to take part in one of his training exercises. During which the pupil might suffer a bloodied nose or bruised ribs for the greater good of a martial education.
Casca noted the sheepish look on the pupil’s face and, inwardly, he sighed. The ex-legionary, who had fought under his great-uncle, genuinely liked the boy. His affection for the intelligent youth however only accentuated his sense of disappointment. Casca could not fault the youth for his effort - and his intelligence made up for deficiencies in his lack of natural strength and skill - but Octavius would never make a good soldier or be a match for someone like Agrippa. It was with a heavy heart that he had to report upon Octavius’ progress every month, if he could call it that, to Lucius Oppius. Oppius was a high-ranking centurion in the legion posted just outside of Apollonia. He was a veteran of Caesar’s campaigns and was presently charged with the protection of the dictator’s nephew. Lucius in turn reported on the youth to Cornelius Balbus, Caesar’s private secretary.
Octavius couldn’t help but observe Agrippa out of the corner of his eye. Marcus’ hand gripped his practise sword and his brow was corrugated in determination. His muscular body, which already was no different from a fully-fledged soldier’s, was taut in readiness. He was like a young lion about to pounce.
Agrippa gave off a slight grunt however, whilst Octavius quietly breathed a sigh of relief, as Casca proceeded to choose another five students to take part in his demonstration. The group was assorted, consisting of Romans and Greeks of varying abilities. Some, perhaps rightly so, were scared. Others wiped sweaty palms across their tunics to grip their weapons more tightly in preparation. They would do their best. The old soldier respected that.
“Now, using all that I have taught you and anything you ladies have taught yourselves, I want you to come at me at full speed.” Casca used three training modes, slow, half, and full speed, depending upon his mood and the safety levels of the exercise. “Give no quarter, because I can assure you I won’t be going easy on you,” Tiro remarked and grinned, to the point where one could see the black hole of his mouth through the crooked gap in his teeth. For a second or two the students’ attention was distracted by a brace of crows who cawed loudly and perched themselves on top of the tiled roof of the house, watching over the scene as if they had come to enjoy a show. Or pick over the entrails of any victims.
Even from around ten yards away, Octavius could hear the ex-legionary’s scarred knuckles crack as he clasped the practise gladius. Cnaeus Tiberius, perhaps the only student in the class who could match Agrippa for strength and skill, took charge of his other four assailants. This was allowed; indeed Casca encouraged the use of teamwork and leadership. The son of one of the wealthiest merchants in the province, Cnaeus Tiberius directed, with a nod of his head and wave of his sword, for the other four to encircle their teacher as if they were hunters about to bring down a boar with their spears. He was certainly ready to give no quarter - he just hoped that his fellow students had the guts to do so too.
“Good, good,” Casca remarked through narrowing eyes, impressed either with Tiberius’ authority or the other four’s willingness to work together. “But remember ladies, this is combat. Not swordplay.”
Cnaeus subtly nodded to his two Greek classmates who were stationed behind their tutor to attack, conveying that he would try to simultaneously assail their target from the front. Casca smiled, anticipating the simple and obvious tactic. He swiftly turned to face the charging Greeks. Such was the huge arc of the Greek’s swing, and the ex-soldier’s strength, that he knocked the sword clean out of his first opponent’s hand. Not having time to bring his weapon back in place to thrust at the second Greek, Casca merely made a fist and punched the youth square in the chest, flooring him. Sensing his attack, the fencing master swivelled to parry the efficient stroke from Tiberius. Sword clacked upon sword again as Cnaeus followed up his first attack with another well-balanced lunge. The student then took a couple of steps back from his tutor, as if he wanted to stop and admire his technique and have his master prai
se him also. Casca rightly did no such thing, not only because he was disappointed in Tiberius’ predictable attack, but more so because his attention was directed towards the two students who were approaching him from both flanks. The first stupidly emitted an embarrassing battle-cry and held his sword aloft for too long. Before the spindly boy could bring his weapon bearing down on his opponent, Casca merely grabbed him by the wrist, to the hand which carried the imitation gladius; he then threw the youth around, as if he were a rag-doll, onto his fellow assailant who was charging at him from the opposite direction. The two students duly collided and collapsed into a heap on top of each other. One of them spluttered as he swallowed a mouthful of sand. It all happened quickly, yet Agrippa absorbed and admired the teacher’s movements and control. Increasingly Marcus had come to believe that combat and warfare were sciences; one had to be deliberate, efficient. Methodical conditioning and foresight were as essential as numbers and the choice of terrain.
Cnaeus cursed his ineffectual unit underneath his breath. They reflected badly on him. Casca laughed, gleefully, sadistically, surveying the field of combat. The lad who had been punched in the stomach still groaned, prostrate, on the ground. His fellow Greek nursed a wooden gladius with a debilitating crack running through it. Tangled limbs, and bare behinds from hitched up skirts, sprang up from the ground where the final two assailants rested.
Octavius heard the crows on top of the roof caw again, as if either laughing at the pathetic display or applauding the wily teacher.
Only Cnaeus Tiberius remained on his feet with a sword in his hand.
“C’mon. Don’t fence, fight,” the gruff master commanded.
The tutor was tested a little by his accomplished pupil’s agility. His footwork was excellent. He was also pleased to witness the pluck of the lad who got up and fought on after being knocked down a couple of times, from the result of the old soldier fighting dirty and tripping his opponent. Casca was pleased to observe that Tiberius was not just a cliché-ridden bully and spoiled brat. He had some steel, as well as skill. At the end though, for all of Tiberius’ ability with a gladius in his hand, he had not quite grasped the point of the lesson. Casca, soon after, closed the sparring session by disarming the lad, kicking the back of his legs and holding the point of the splintered sword to Tiberius’ throat.
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