Augustus

  2

  I. Letter: Atia and Marcius Philippus to Octavius (April, 44 B.C.)

  By the time you receive this letter, my son, you will have arrived at Brindisi and heard the news. It is as I feared: the will is now public, and you have been named Caesar’s son and heir. I know that your first impulse will be to accept both the name and the fortune; but your mother implores you to wait, to consider, and to judge the world into which this will of your uncle invites you. It is not the simple country world of Velletri, where you spent your childhood; nor is it the household world of tutors and nurses where you spent your boyhood; nor is it the world of books and philosophy where you spent your youth, nor even the simple world of the battlefield to which Caesar (against my will) introduced you. It is the world of Rome, where no man knows his enemy or his friend, where license is more admired than virtue, and where principle has become servant to self.

  Your mother begs you to renounce the terms of the will; you may do so without traducing the name of your uncle, and no one will think the worse of you. For if you accept the name and the fortune, you accept the enmity of both those who killed Caesar and those who now support his memory. You will have only the love of the rabble, as did Caesar; and that was not enough to protect him from his fate.

  I pray that you receive this before you have acted rashly. We have removed ourselves from the danger in Rome, and will stay here at your stepfather’s place in Puteoli until the chaos has settled into some kind of order. If you do not accept the will, you may travel safely across the country and join us here. It still is possible to lead a decent life in the privacy of one’s own heart and mind. Your stepfather wishes to add some words to this.

  Your mother speaks to you from the love that is in her heart; I speak to you from my affection, too, but also from my practical knowledge of the world and of the events of the past days.

  You know my politics, and you know that there have been occasions in the past when I could not approve of the course that your late uncle pursued. Indeed, I have from time to time found it necessary, as has our friend Cicero, to assert this disapproval on the floor of the Senate. I mention this only to assure you that it is not from political considerations that I urge you upon the course that your mother has advised, but from practical ones.

  I do not approve of the assassination, and had I been consulted about it I would most certainly have recoiled with such aversion that I myself might have been in danger. But you must understand that among the tyrranicides (as they call themselves) are some of the most responsible and respected citizens of Rome. They have the support of most of the Senate, and they are in danger only from the rabble; some of them are my friends, and however ill-advised were their actions, they are good men and patriots. Even Marcus Antonius, who has roused the rabble, does not move against them, and will not; for he, too, is a practical man.

  Whatever his virtues, your uncle left Rome in a state from which it is not likely soon to recover. All is in doubt: his enemies are powerful but confused in their resolve, and his friends are corrupt and to be trusted by no one. If you accept the name and the inheritance, you will be abandoned by those who matter; you will have a name that is an empty honor, and a fortune that you do not need; and you will be alone.

  Come to us at Puteoli. Do not involve yourself in issues whose resolution cannot improve your interest. Keep yourself aloof from all. You will be safe in our affections.

  II. The Memoirs of Marcus Agrippa: Fragments (13 B.C.)

  . . . and at that news and in our grief we acted. We made haste to sail and had a stormy crossing to Otranto, where we landed in the dark of night and did not let our persons be known to any. We slept at a common inn and made our servants absent themselves, so that no one might suspect us; and before dawn we set out on foot toward Brindisi, as if we were country folk. At Lecce we were halted by two soldiers who watched the approach to Brindisi; and though we did not give our names, we were recognized by one who had been in the Spanish campaign. From him we learned that the garrison at Brindisi would welcome us, and that we might go there without danger. One walked with us while the other went ahead to tell of our coming, and we came to Brindisi with the full honor of a guard and the soldiers ranked on either side of us as we came into the city.

  There we were shown a copy of Caesar’s will which named Octavius his son and legatee, and gave his gardens to the people for their recreation and to every citizen of Rome three hundred pieces of silver from his fortune.

  We had what news there was of Rome, which writhed in disorder; we had the names of those who murdered Caesar, and knew the lawlessness of the Senate that sanctioned the murder and set the murderers free; and we knew the grief and rage of the people under that lawless rule.

  A messenger from the household of Octavius awaited us, and gave him letters from his mother and her husband which, out of their affection and regard, urged upon him that renunciation of the legacy which he could not make. The uncertainty of the world and the difficulty of his task strengthened his resolve, and we called him Caesar then and gave him our allegiance.

  Out of their veneration for his murdered father and their love for his son, the legion at Brindisi and veterans from miles around thronged about him, urging him to lead them in vengeance against the murderers; but he put them off with many words of gratitude, and we went quietly in our mourning across the land, from Brindisi along the Appian Way to Puteoli, whence we purposed to enter Rome at a propitious time.

  III. Quintus Salvidienus Rufus: Notes for a Journal, at Brindisi (44 B.C.)

  We have learned much; we understand little. It is said that there were more than sixty conspirators. Chief among them were Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Cassius Longinus, Decimus Brutus Albinus, Gaius Trebonius—all supposed friends of Julius Caesar, some of whose names we have known since childhood. And there are others whom we do not yet know. Marcus Antonius speaks against the murderers, and then entertains them at dinner; Dolabella, who approved the assassination, is made consul for the year by that same Antonius who has denounced the enemies of Julius Caesar.

  What game does Antonius play? Where do we go?

  IV. Letter: Marcus Tullius Cicero to Marcius Philippus (44 B.C.)

  I have just learned that your stepson, with three of his young friends, is even now on his way from Brindisi, where he landed only a few days ago; I am hastening this letter to you, so that you might have it before his arrival.

  It is rumored that despite your letter of advice (a copy of which you were most kind to send to me, and which I acknowledge with much gratitude) he intends now to accept the terms of Caesar’s will. I hope that this is not true, but I fear the rashness of youth. I entreat you to use what influence you have to dissuade him from this course, or, if the step has been taken, to persuade him to renounce it. To this end, I shall be glad to lend whatever assistance I can; I shall make preparations to leave my lodge here at Astura in the next few days, so that I may be with you at Puteoli when he arrives. I have been kind to him in the past, and I believe that he admires me.

  I know that you bear some affection for the boy, but you must understand that he is, however remotely, a Caesar, and that the enemies of our cause may make use of him if he is allowed to go his own way. In times such as these, loyalty to our Party must take precedence over our natural inclinations; and none of us wants harm to come to the boy. You must speak to your wife about this (I remember that she has great power over her son) as persuasively as you can.

  I have had news from Rome. The situation is not good, but neither is it hopeless. Our friends still do not dare show their faces there, and even my dear Brutus must do what he can in the countryside, rather than remain in Rome and repair the Republic. I had hoped that the assassination would at once restore our freedom, return us to the glory of our past, and rid us of the upstarts that now presume to disturb the order that we both love. But the Republic is not repaired; those who should act with fortitude seem incapable of resolution, and Antonius prowls like a be
ast from one spoil to another, pillaging the treasury and gathering power wherever he can. Had we to endure Antonius, I could almost regret the death of Caesar. But we will not have to endure him long—of that I am convinced. He moves so recklessly that he must destroy himself.

  I am too much the idealist, I know—even my dearest friends do not deny that. Yet I most reasonably have faith in the eventual justice of our cause. The wound will heal, the thrashing will cease, the Senate will find that ancient purpose and dignity which Caesar almost extinguished—and you and I, my dear Marcius, will live to see that old virtue of which we have so often spoken once again settle like a wreath upon the brow of Rome.

  The events of the past few weeks press upon me. These matters have taken so much of my time that my own affairs suffer. One of the managers of my property, Chrysippus, came to me yesterday and remonstrated seriously with me; two of my shops have fallen down and others are deteriorating so badly that not only the tenants, but even the mice have threatened to migrate! How fortunate I am to have followed Socrates—others would call this a calamity, but I do not even count it a nuisance. How insignificant are such things! In any event, as a result of a long discussion with Chrysippus, I have come up with a plan whereby I can sell a few buildings and repair others, so that I will make my loss a profit.

  V. Letter: Marcus Tullius Cicero to Marcus Junius Brutus (44 B.C.)

  I have seen Octavius. He is at his stepfather’s villa at Puteoli, which is just next to mine; and since Marcius Philippus and I are friends, I have free access to see him when I wish. And I must tell you at once that he has, indeed, accepted the inheritance and the name of our dead enemy.

  But before you despair, let me hasten to assure you that this acceptance is of less moment than either of us might have dreamed. The boy is nothing, and we need have no fear.

  With him are three of his young friends: one Marcus Agrippa, a huge bumpkin who would appear more at ease tramping a furrow, either before or after the plough, than walking in a drawing room; one Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, a harsh-featured but oddly effeminate youth who flounces rather than walks, and who flutters his eyelashes in a most repulsive way; and one Salvidienus Rufus, a thin intense boy who laughs a bit too much, but who seems the most tolerable of the lot. So far as I can gather, they are nobodies, with neither families of any import nor fortunes of any account. (If it comes to that, of course, neither is young Octavius’s pedigree immaculate; his grandfather, on his father’s side, was a mere country moneylender, and beyond that only the gods know where he comes from.)

  In any event, the four of them wander about the house as if they had nothing to do, talking to visitors and generally making nuisances of themselves. They seem to know nothing, for you can hardly get an intelligent response from any of them; they ask stupid questions, and then seem not to understand the answers, for they nod vacantly and look somewhere else.

  But I do not let either my contempt or my elation become apparent. I put on a grave show with the boy. When he first came, I clucked with sympathy and uttered platitudes about the loss of close relatives. From his response, I became persuaded that his grief was personal rather than political. Then I equivocated a bit, and suggested that however unfortunate the assassination (you will forgive me that hypocrisy, dear Brutus), there were many who thought that the act sprang from unselfish and patriotic motives. At no time did I detect in him any sign that he was distressed by these advances. I believe that he is in some awe of me, and that he may be persuaded to come to our side, if I handle this with sufficient delicacy.

  He is a boy, and a rather foolish boy at that; he has no idea of politics, nor is he likely to have. He is activated neither by honor nor ambition but by a rather gentle affection for the memory of one he would had been his father. And his friends look only for the advantage that they can have in his favor. Thus he does not, I believe, constitute a danger for us.

  On the other hand, we may be able to put this circumstance to our benefit. For he does have claim to the name of Caesar, and (if he can collect it) the inheritance. There are certain to be some who will follow him merely because of the name he has assumed; others, the veterans and retainers, will follow him because of their memory of the man who gave him that name; and still others will follow out of confusion and whim. But the important thing to remember is that we shall have lost none of our own, for those who might follow him are those who otherwise would have followed Antonius! If we can persuade him to our cause, we shall have doubled our victory; for at the worst, we shall have weakened Antonius’s side, and that alone would have been victory enough. We shall use the boy, and then we will cast him aside; and the tyrant’s line shall have come to an end.

  As you can easily understand, I cannot speak freely of these matters with Marcius Philippus; though he is our friend, he is in an awkward position. After all, he is married to the boy’s mother; and no man is wholly free of the weaknesses that marital obligations occasionally raise. Besides, he is not of sufficient importance to entrust with everything.

  You may keep this letter for less perilous times, but please do not send a copy to our friend Atticus. Out of admiration for me and out of pride in our friendship, he shows my letters to everyone, even if he does not publish them. And the information here should not be known at large, until the future has proved my observations to be true.

  A postscript: Caesar’s Egyptian whore, Cleopatra, has fled Rome, whether in fear of her life or in despair at the outcome of her ambitions, I do not know; we are well rid of her. Octavius goes to Rome to claim his inheritance, and he goes in utter safety. I could hardly hide my anger and sorrow when I heard this from him; for this stripling and his loutish friends can go there without risk to their persons, while you, my hero of the Ides of March, and our Cassius, must lurk like hunted animals beyond the precincts of the city you freed.

  VI. Letter: Marcus Tullius Cicero to Marcus Junius Brutus (44 B.C.)

  The briefest of notes. He is ours—I am sure of it. He has gone to Rome, and he has spoken to the people, but only to claim his inheritance. I am told that he does not speak ill of you, or of Cassius, or of any of the others. He praises Caesar in the gentlest of terms, and lets it be known that he takes the inheritance out of duty and the name out of reverence, and that he intends to retire to private life once he has done with the matter at hand. Can we believe him? We must, we must! I shall court him when I return to Rome; for his name may still have value to us.

  VII. Letter: Marcus Antonius to Gaius Sentius Tavus, Military Commander of Macedonia (44 B.C.)

  Sentius, you gamesome old cock, Antonius sends you greetings, and a report upon the latest triviality—an example of the kind of thing I am daily faced with, now that the burden of administration is upon me. I don’t know how Caesar could endure it, day after day; he was a strange man.

  That whey-faced little bastard, Octavius, came around to see me yesterday morning. He has been in Rome for the past week or so, acting like a bereaved widow, calling himself Caesar, all manner of nonsense. It seems that Gnaeus and Lucius, my idiot brothers, without consulting me, gave him permission to address the crowd in the Forum, if he would assure them that the speech would not be political. Did you ever hear of a speech that was not political? Well, at least he didn’t try to stir them up; so he’s not altogether a fool. He got some sympathy from the crowd, I’m sure, but that’s about all.

  But if not altogether, he certainly is something of a fool; for he gives himself airs that are damned presumptuous in a boy, especially in a boy whose grandfather was a thief and whose only name of any account is a borrowed one. He came to my house late in the morning, without an appointment, while half-a-dozen other people were waiting, and he had three of his retinue with him, as if he were a bloody magistrate and they were his lictors. I guess he supposed I would drop everything and come running out to him, which of course I did not do. I told my secretary to inform him that he had to await his turn; I half-expected and half-wanted him to walk out on me. But he didn??
?t, so I kept him waiting for most of the rest of the morning, and finally let him come in.

  I must confess that, despite the game I played with him, I was a little curious. I had only seen him a couple of times before— once, six or seven years ago, when he was about twelve, and Caesar let him give the panegyric at his grandmother Julia’s funeral; and again, two years ago, at Caesar’s Triumphal March after Africa, when I rode in the carriage with Caesar and the boy rode behind us. At one time, Caesar had talked to me a great deal about him; and I wondered if I had missed something.

  Well, I hadn’t. I shall never understand how the “great” Caesar could have made this boy the inheritor of his name, his power, and his fortune. I swear to the gods, if the will hadn’t first been received and recorded in the Temple of the Vestal Virgins, I would have taken a chance on altering it myself.

  I don’t think I would have been so annoyed if he had left his airs in the reception room and had come into my office like anybody else. But he didn’t. He came in flanked by his three friends, whom he presented to me as if I gave a damn about any of them. He addressed me with the proper amount of civility, and then waited for me to say something. I looked at him for a long time and didn’t speak. I’ll say this for him: he’s a cool one. He didn’t break and didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t even tell whether or not he was angry at having been made to wait. So finally I said:

  “Well? What do you want?”

  And even then he didn’t blink. He said: “I have come to pay my respects to you, who were my father’s friend, and to inquire about the steps that may be taken to settle his will.”

  “Your uncle,” I said, “left his affairs in a mess. I would advise you not to wait around in Rome until they’re straightened out.”