Antony and Cleopatra

  Naturally the Senate voted Octavian all kinds of honors; he accepted very few, and disliked it when the House persisted in calling him “dux”—leader. Secret hankerings he had, but they were not of a blatant nature; the last thing he wanted was to look a naked despot. So he lived as befitted a senator of his rank, but never flamboyantly. He knew he couldn’t continue to rule without the connivance of the Senate, yet he knew just as certainly that somehow he had to draw that body’s teeth without seeming to have grown any himself. It was a help to control the fiscus and the army, two powers he had no intention of laying down, but they did not endow him with a shred of personal inviolability. For that, he needed the powers of a tribune of the plebs—not for a year or a decade, but for life. To that end he had to work, gradually accruing them until finally he had the greatest one of all—the power of the veto. He, the least musical of all men, had to sing the senators a siren song so seductive they would lie on their oars forever.

  When Marcella turned eighteen she married Marcus Agrippa, consul for the second time; she hadn’t fallen out of love with her dour, uncommunicative hero, and entered the union convinced that she would captivate him.

  Octavia’s nursery never seemed to diminish in size, despite the departure of Marcella and Marcellus, her two eldest. She had Iullus, Tiberius, and Marcia, all aged fourteen; Cellina, Selene, Selene’s twin the newly named Gaius Antonius, and Drusus, all twelve; Antonia and Julia, eleven; Tonilla, nine; the newly named Lucius Antonius, seven; and Vipsania, aged six. Twelve children altogether.

  “I am sorry to see Marcellus go,” Octavia said to Gaius Fonteius, “but he has his own house and should take up residence in it. He is to be a contubernalis on Agrippa’s staff next year.”

  “What about Vipsania now that Agrippa’s married?”

  “She’s to stay with me—a wise decision, I think. Marcella won’t want a reminder of her last few years in the nursery, and Vipsania would be that. Besides, Tiberius would mope.”

  “How are Cleopatra’s children surviving?” Fonteius asked.

  “Much better!”

  “So Gaius and Lucius Antonius, so called, finally grew tired of being drubbed by Tiberius, Iullus, and Drusus?”

  “Once I steeled myself to turn a blind eye, yes. That was good advice, Fonteius, little though I liked it at the time. Now all I have to do is persuade Gaius Antonius not to overeat—oh, he is a glutton!”

  “So was his father in many ways.” Fonteius leaned his back against a column in the new, exquisite gardens Livia Drusilla had created around old Hortensius’s carp ponds, and crossed his arms rather defensively. Now that Mark Antony was dead and the tomb in Alexandria sealed forever, he had resolved to try his luck with Octavia, who had had many years to mourn her last husband. At forty, her child-bearing days were probably finished, and the nursery would receive no further additions. Unless they were grandchildren. Why not try? She and he had been such good friends that he had grown past thinking she would turn away from him for the sake of Antony’s memory.

  Such a handsome man! she was thinking as she watched him, her sensitive nature divining that he had something on his mind.

  “Octavia…” he said, then stopped.

  “Yes?” she prompted, curious. “Do tell me!”

  “You must know how much I love you. Would you marry me?”

  The shock dilated her pupils, tensed her body. She sighed, shook her head. “I thank you for the offer, Gaius Fonteius, and most of all for the love. But I cannot.”

  “You don’t love me?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s crept up on me year by year, and you’ve been so very patient. But I cannot marry you, or anyone else.”

  “Imperator Caesar,” he said, mouth tight.

  “Yes, Imperator Caesar. He has held me up to all the world as the epitome of wifely devotion, of motherly care. And well do I remember how he reacted when our mother fell from grace! Were I to marry again, Rome would be disappointed in me.”

  “Then can we be lovers?”

  She thought about that, her generous mouth curved in a smile. “I shall ask him, Gaius, but his answer will be no.”

  “Ask him, nonetheless!” He went to sit on the edge of a pond, his fine eyes filled with light, mouth smiling at her. “I will have an answer, Octavia, even if it is no. Ask him—now!”

  Her brother was working at his desk—when was he not? He looked up, brows raised.

  “May I see you in private, Caesar?”

  “Of course.” A wave sent the clerks scurrying out. “Well?”

  “I have received a proposal of marriage.”

  That provoked a frown of displeasure. “From whom?”

  “Gaius Fonteius.”

  “Ah!” He steepled his fingers. “A good man, one of my most trusted adherents. Would you want to marry him?”

  “Yes, but only with your consent, brother.”

  “I cannot consent.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, come, Octavia, you know why! It isn’t that marriage to you puts him too high, it’s that it puts you too low.”

  Her shoulders slumped; she sat in a chair and hung her head. “Yes, I realize that. But it is very hard, Little Gaius.”

  The childhood name brought tears to his eyes; he winked them away. “How, hard?” he asked.

  “I would so much like to be married. I have given you many years of my life, Caesar, without complaint or expectation of reward. I’ve let you elevate me to a status that makes me equal to the Vestals. But I am not yet decrepit, and I feel that I do deserve some reward.” She lifted her head. “I am not you, Caesar. I do not wish to be higher than everyone else. I want to feel a man’s arms around me again. I want to be desired and needed in a more personal way than by children.”

  “It’s not possible,” he said through his teeth.

  “What if we became lovers, then? Very quietly and secretly, with the utmost discretion. Give me that at least!”

  “I would like to, Octavia, but we live in a transparent pool. Servants gossip, my agents gossip. It can’t be done.”

  “Yes, it can! The gossip about us goes on incessantly—your mistresses, my lovers—Rome buzzes! Do you think that Rome doesn’t already deem Fonteius my lover, when we spend so much time together? What would change, except that a fiction would become a fact? It’s old and hoary, Caesar, hardly worth one tattling tongue.”

  He had listened inscrutably, eyelids down; now they lifted and he smiled Little Gaius’s sweetest smile. “All right, take Fonteius as your lover. But no others, and never publicly by look or gesture or word. I do not like the prospect, but you don’t have a promiscuous bone in your body.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “I’ll enlist Livia Drusilla. Her aid will be invaluable.”

  Octavia shrank. “Caesar, no! She wouldn’t approve!”

  “Actually, she would. Livia Drusilla never forgets that there is one mother in our family.”

  The last part of that year was fraught with crises neither Octavian nor Agrippa had foreseen. As always, a Famous Family lay at the root of them, this time the Licinii Crassi. It was a clan as old as the Republic, and its present leading member made a bid for power so clever that he couldn’t see how it could fail. But that upstart, that imposter Octavian dealt with him brilliantly—constitutionally, and through the Senate Marcus Licinius Crassus had assumed would support him. It did not.

  Crassus’s sister, Licinia, was the wife of Cornelius Gallus, thus linking Cornelius Gallus to events. While governor of Egypt he had accomplished great things as an explorer; his success went to his head so hugely that he inscribed his exploits on the pyramids, the temples of Isis and Hathor, and various monuments in Alexandria. He had also erected gigantic effigies of himself everywhere, an action forbidden to all Romans, whose statues were never to exceed the size of a man. Even Octavian was careful to observe this; that his friend and adherent Gallus had not came as a shock. Summoned to Rome to answer for his hubris, Cornelius Gallus and his wife committed suicide halfway throug
h trial for treason before the Senate.

  Never one to ignore such lessons, Octavian sent none but very ordinary men of low birth to govern Egypt from that moment on, and ensured that ex-consuls governing provinces were sent to regions devoid of large armies. Ex-praetors inherited the armies; since they wanted to be consuls, they were more likely to behave themselves. Triumphs would become the entitlement of Octavian’s own family, none other.

  “Crafty,” said Maecenas. “Your senatorial sheep went along like lambs—baa, baa, baa.”

  “The new Rome cannot be let raise ambitious men in ways that display their colors to the knights, let alone the common people. Let them win military laurels by all means, but in the service of the Senate and People of Rome, not to enhance their own families,” Octavian said. “I have worked out how to castrate the nobility, old or new makes no difference. They may live as fat as they like, but never attain public fame. I’ll allow them guts, but never glory.”

  “You need another name besides Caesar,” Maecenas said, eyes fixed on a beautiful bust of Divus Julius looted from Cleopatra’s palace. “It hasn’t escaped me that you don’t care for dux or princeps. Imperator is better let die, and Divi Filius isn’t necessary anymore. But what name?”

  “Romulus!” Octavian cried eagerly. “Caesar Romulus!”

  “Impossible!” Maecenas squawked.

  “I like Romulus!”

  “You may like it all you wish, Caesar, but it is the name of the founder of Rome—and Rome’s first king.”

  “I want to be called Caesar Romulus!”

  A stand from which Octavian refused to be budged, no matter how hard Maecenas and Livia Drusilla argued. Finally they went to Marcus Agrippa, in Rome these days because he was consul of the old year and to be consul again in the new year.

  “Marcus, convince him that he can’t be Romulus!”

  “I’ll try,” said Agrippa, “but I make no promises.”

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Octavian said sulkily when approached. “I need a name befitting my status, and I can’t think of one that does the job half as well as Romulus.”

  “Would you change your mind if someone found a better name?”

  “Yes, of course I would! I’m not blind to the kingly implications of Romulus!”

  “Find him a better name,” said Agrippa to Maecenas.

  It was Virgil the poet thought of it.

  “How about,” Maecenas asked delicately, “Augustus?”

  Octavian blinked. “Augustus?”

  “Yes, Augustus. It means the highest of the high, the most glorious of the glorious, the greatest of the greatest. And it’s never been used as a cognomen by anyone—anyone at all.”

  “Augustus.” Octavian rolled it on his tongue, savoring it.

  “Augustus…Yes, I like it. Very well, let it be Augustus.”

  On the thirteenth day of January, when Octavian was thirty-five years old and consul for the seventh time, he convened the Senate. “It is time that I laid down all my powers,” he told it. “The dangers are over. Marcus Antonius, poor dupe, has been dead two and a half years, and with him, the Queen of Beasts who vilely corrupted him. The little panics and passing terrors of the time since have also died, mere nothings compared to the might and glory of Rome. I have been Rome’s faithful guardian, her indefatigable champion. So now, on this day, conscript fathers, I give you notice that I am relinquishing all my provinces—the grain Islands, the Spains, the Gauls, Macedonia and Greece, Asia Province, Africa, Cyrenaica, Bithynia, and Syria. I hand them to the Senate and People of Rome. All I wish to keep is my dignitas, which entails my status as a consular, as your princeps senatus, and my personal rank as an honorary tribune of the plebs.”

  The House flew into a spontaneous uproar. “No, no!” drummed in Octavian’s ears from everywhere, a staccato booming.

  “No, great Caesar, no!” came Plancus’s voice, the loudest. “Keep your trusty hands on Rome, we beg you!”

  “Aye, aye, aye!” from all sides.

  The farce went on for some hours, a shrinking Octavian trying to protest that he wasn’t needed anymore, and the House insisting that he was. Finally Plancus, stout turncoat, adjourned the matter unresolved until the House met again in three days.

  On the sixteenth day of January the House, in the person of Lucius Munatius Plancus, addressed its brightest luminary.

  “Caesar, your hand will always be needed,” said Plancus, at his most mellifluous. “Therefore we beg that you retain your imperium maius over all Rome’s provinces, and that you continue as her senior consul for the foreseeable future. Your scrupulous attention to the welfare of the Republic has not escaped us, and we rejoice that under your care the Republic has been infused with new vigor, rejuvenated for all time.”

  He went on for another hour, eventually coming to an end in a thundrous voice that echoed around the chamber. “As a special mark of this body’s thanks, we wish to give you the name of Caesar Augustus, and recommend a law that no other man is ever to use it! Caesar Augustus, highest of the high, bravest of the brave! Caesar Augustus, the greatest man in the history of the Roman Republic!”

  “I accept.” What else was there to say?

  “Caesar Augustus!” Agrippa roared, and embraced him. First among his adherents, first among his friends.

  Augustus walked out of Divus Julius’s Curia Hostilia in the midst of a host of senators, but arm in arm with Agrippa. In the foyer he hugged his wife and sister, then strode to the edge of the steps and lifted both hands to the cheering crowd.

  There has already been a Romulus, he thought. I am Augustus, and unique.

  FINIS

  GLOSSARY

  aedes The house of a god not sanctified by the rite of augury during its consecration. Vesta, a god of women, had an aedes, not a temple. It was round and situated in the Forum Romanum.

  aerarium A repository for public moneys—a treasury.

  aether That part of the upper atmosphere permeated by godly forces, or the air immediately surrounding a god. It also meant the blue sky of daylight.

  agora An open space inside a Greek city used for public gatherings. It was usually enclosed by colonnades.

  Anatolia Roughly, modern Asian Turkey.

  animus Quoting the Oxford Latin Dictionary: “The mind as opposed to the body, the mind or soul as constituting with the body the whole person.” To a Roman, it did not mean an immortal soul; it was simply the animating force that endowed awareness.

  Apollonia The southern terminus of the Via Egnatia on the Adriatic coast of Macedonia. It lay near the mouth of the modern Vijosë River in Albania. The northern terminus was Dyrrachium.

  Apulia, Apulian That part of southeastern Italia wherein the Apennines flatten and the boot’s “spur” is located. An Apulian was considered an uneducated, brainless bumpkin.

  Armenia Parva Little Armenia. It lay west of Armenia proper, around the headwaters and upper courses of the Euphrates River, and was high, extremely mountainous, and inhospitable.

  Arretium Modern Arezzo, on the Arno River.

  augur A member of the College of Augurs, fifteen men at this time. His duties concerned divination rather than prognostication, and he was appointed for life by his fellows, or by election, depending. He inspected the stipulated object or signs to ascertain whether or not a projected undertaking had the approval of the gods, be it a meeting, a proposed new law, or any other public business. A protocol governing interpretation existed, so an augur “went by the book” rather than claimed to have psychic powers. He wore the red-and-purple-striped toga, and carried a staff, the lituus, topped by a curlicue.

  aurochs Bos primigenia, the wild ox of Europe, extinct for a millennium. It was black in color, stood six feet at the shoulder, and was equipped with a formidable pair of forward-curving horns.

  auxiliaries Troops serving in a Roman army without owning the Roman citizenship. They were usually mounted but could be foot soldiers.

  ballista At this
time, a piece of artillery designed to hurl boulders or stones. The missile was placed in a spoon-shaped arm that was put under extreme tension by a tightly wound rope spring; when the spring was released, the arm shot into the air and came to rest against a thick pad, propelling the missile a long distance. It was accurate when expertly fired by trained artillerymen.

  basilica A large building devoted to public activities such as courts of law. It was lit by clerestory windows high up on its sides.

  beak In Latin, rostrum. Of oak or bronze, the beak projected forward of a ship’s bow just below the waterline and was used to hole or damage an enemy vessel by a procedure called “ramming.”

  Belgae The fearsome confraternity of tribes inhabiting the northwestern region of Long-haired Gaul, adjacent to the Rhine. They were of mixed Germano-Gallic blood; among the many tribes were the Nervii, who fought on foot, and the Treveri, who were mounted.

  boni Literally, the plural of “good,” but used from the time of Plautus on to describe the men who formed the ultra-conservative rump of the Senate: “the good men.”

  Bononia A town on the Via Aemilia in Italian Gaul. Modern Bologna.

  Burdigala A Gallic city at the apex of the mouth of the Garumna (Garonne) River in Aquitania. Now called Bordeaux.

  cacat! Shit!

  caligae Legionary footwear, open to the air but more supportive than a sandal, as they were laced tightly around the ankles. The very thick leather sole was studded with metal hobnails, thus raising the marching foot too high off the ground to pick up painful gravel. The shoe’s open nature kept the foot healthy. In icy or snowy weather, the legionary wore thick socks, rabbit skins, or similar inside it.

  Campania The fabulously rich and fertile volcanic basin that lay between the mountains of Samnium and the Tuscan Sea, and extended from Tarracina in the north to a point just south of the Bay of Naples. Strong Greek and Samnite elements in its population made it a grudging subject of Rome’s, always prone to insurrection.