Augustus- Son of Caesar Read online

  AUGUSTUS

  Son of Caesar

  Richard Foreman

  © Richard Foreman 2015

  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 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  Dedicated to Anthony Foreman

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  Epilogue

  End Note

  1.

  “Three’s company, four would have been a crowd. I’m glad Marcellus is away on business,” Octavius whispered to his friend, Marcus Agrippa. Octavia – Octavius’ sister – had left the room to check that all was running smoothly in the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Agrippa – muscular, good hearted and good humoured – asked whilst mopping up the remainder of his squid in mushroom sauce with a slice of freshly baked bread.

  “He loves himself far more than anyone else does in this world – and the next. He over-dresses and underwhelms. Every time he opens his mouth and speaks I find myself wanting to open my mouth too – and yawn. Marcellus –”

  Agrippa darted his eyes towards the door behind him and he heard the rustle of his sister’s silk stola. Octavius swiftly altered the course of his conversation.

  “– is away, inspecting a potential business interest in Perusia.”

  In truth Marcus Marcellus was inspecting the wife of his potential business partner in Perusia. Although he would be losing sleep this evening, it would be due to courting his new mistress rather than regretting missing the company of his young brother-in-law.

  Octavia entered the triclinium carrying a plate with a further slice or two of bread for Agrippa. Even standing apart, as opposed to next to each other as they were now, one could discern a strong resemblance between brother and sister. They shared the same fair complexion and hair, fine features, the same expressive (but also at times unreadable) eyes. Neither possessed an overly gregarious manner yet they were charming and memorable in any company. Agrippa could not help but notice the bond between them. Octavius cherished and respected his sister more than any other woman.

  This was their second evening in Rome. It was perhaps the first time Agrippa had seen his friend wholly relax and be himself – after a seemingly non-stop round of visits and visitors – since entering the city. The cheers had been plentiful and people had come out to greet the new Caesar and the pandemonium had continued since.

  “You will be pleased to know that Marcellus is often away on business so you may wish to come to dinner again. I am well aware that you would rather stomach my food than the company of my husband.” There was as much good humour as censure in the remark. The playfulness in Octavia’s expression – and her wit – briefly reminded Agrippa of Caecilia, his intended. They had recently met – and fallen in love – at Cicero’s country estate in Puteoli. What with Caecilia being the daughter of the republican-minded Atticus – and Agrippa being the lieutenant of a Caesar – the two lovers were prudently keeping their relationship a secret.

  “So, Marcus, what do you think of my sister here?” Octavius remarked whilst fondly and mischievously gazing up at his blushing sibling. “We shared much when we were young. It’s only fair that we share a certain amount of awkwardness and embarrassment now.”

  “She is charming, witty and beautiful – to the point where I have my doubts that she could be related to you.”

  Octavius laughed in reply whilst shrewdly examining the look that Octavia and Agrippa exchanged. He sensed warmth, but no heat, between the pair. He would ask Agrippa how attracted he was to his sister in private. As Caesar had offered his daughter Julia to Pompey, to strengthen the alliance between them, so too Octavius (ever conscious of his great-uncle’s stratagems) could utilise Octavia one day in a similar regard. Also, he wanted to see his sister and best friend happy. A union between them could furnish such happiness.

  The trio continued with their meal as servants first entered with a course of spiced turbot on a bed of cucumber and rocket, and then roasted pork in onion gravy. Octavius ate little and watered down his wine more than his friend. But then it was mathematically impossible not to dilute his wine any less than Agrippa, who cordially complimented his hostess on every dish and vintage.

  “So tell me Marcus, are you betrothed yet?” Octavia asked, thinking that such was his appetite he needed a woman in the kitchen as much as his bed. As Agrippa was caught with a mouth full of honey-glazed crackling Octavius replied for him: “Marcus is married to my cause.”

  “In that case you should make sure that you have an affair,” Octavia playfully replied.

  “Was that a proposal?” Octavius retorted.

  “Gaius, you are lucky that Marcellus isn’t here,” Octavia, with slightly less playfulness infusing her tone, answered back whilst crimsoning, unable to look Agrippa in the eye.

  “It could be you who proves to be the lucky one sister,” Octavius remarked, suggestively raising his eyebrow, “but I do indeed consider it a piece of good fortune that Marcellus is away.”

  There was more mirth than malice in his comment but nevertheless Octavia’s mask slipped a little and she seemed hurt by her brother’s jibe. Akin to her sibling though she recovered her composure quickly.

  “You must forgive my brother, Marcus. Ever since he stopped begging me to help him with his homework he feels he can say anything without recourse. But, although he thinks little of my husband, he constantly writes to me and speaks highly of you. And we both know how seldom he speaks highly of anyone.”

  “If you speak highly of everyone then the compliment is diminished,” Octavius somewhat sententiously asserted. There was a pause then as both he and Agrippa remembered Cleanthes, the original author of the saying. Cleanthes, Octavius’ satirical and sagacious personal tutor, had died whilst their party was attacked by hired assassins as they ventured along the Appian Way towards Rome. The pair remembered the legionaries Roscius and Tiro Casca who had also perished, protecting Octavius, in the skirmish. The two friends fleetingly shared a look, their faces exhibiting sorrow and attempted consolation. A little confused as to the import of the strange moment between her guests Octavia changed the subject.

  “Now, although I can no longer help you with your homework brother, is there anything I can do? What are your plans?”

  “I will claim my inheritance,” the young Caesar stated, simply and sternly. Witnessing how taken aback his sister was by his reply Octavius smiled and flippantly added, “How else will I be able to afford to keep mother in shoes?”

  A short pause ensued, before Octavia responded: “You cannot afford to make too many enemies.”

  “I can if I befriend the legions. And I will need my inheritance to do so. I heard today how, before Caesar’s body was even cold, Antony visited Calpurnia. Taking advantage of her frail state he secured Julius’ papers and treasury. But he will not take advantage of me.”

  Agrippa frowned, recalling his visit to Caesar’s house that afternoon. It was not just the lack of a retinue missing from the former dictator’s house which had made the property seem empty – even the acousti
cs made the house seem like a mausoleum. Octavius described Calpurnia as being the shadow of the woman she once was. Her nerves were frayed from grief as well as the stress of Caesar’s creditors calling on her. Octavius instructed his aunt to now direct all the money-lenders to him, to answer for the debts.

  Aside from his debts the only thing which Octavius had inherited from Caesar that afternoon was a servant. Calpurnia introduced the aged Jew, Joseph, to Octavius. A large head bobbed up and down on a scrawny body. There was more hair sprouting from his ears and nostrils than his scalp. Hopefully his head housed more sense than teeth. When Calpurnia exited Octavius had interviewed the servant, who had served both Julius and his father before him.

  “So, Joseph, tell me – why I should take you on?” Octavius had asked whilst sitting on a large chair behind the ornate cedar wood desk of the former dictator. The elderly Jew had squinted and raised his eyes as if looking up to his brain for inspiration on how he should respond. Yet there had also been a humorous glint in his aspect as he answered.

  “Well, if my hand doesn’t shake too much and cut your throat, I am a skilled barber. I shaved your great-uncle most mornings.”

  “Our fellow here either has a sense of earnestness, or humour, Marcus, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed. And do you have anything else to offer?” Agrippa had asked, amused and somewhat intrigued by the wizened Jew.

  “I can offer you my prayers. Your enemies pray to the same gods as you. As such you may receive equal good fortune from them. Your enemies do not pray to my God however – so I may tip the balance of divine favour.”

  Octavius laughed.

  “Caesar never mentioned your peculiar humour to me Joseph but he did say how you were one of the most honest and loyal men he had ever known.”

  “I fear I had little competition. Most of the men Caesar knew were politicians.”

  Agrippa recalled the comment and smiled inwardly. He would report the encounter in his letter to Caecilia later in the evening. He loved sharing his day with her in a letter – and longed to share her bed.

  “You still have the option of returning to Apollonia. Mother has enough shoes already. You can return to your studies – live a quiet but contented life,” Octavia argued.

  Her words echoed those spoken by Cleanthes, shortly before he died. Octavius gently shook his head and grimly replied (quoting a line from an old play that resonated for him): “I am in blood – stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.”

  2.

  Morning. The camp of the Fourth Legion, just outside of Asculum.

  A watery mist poured itself over the rows of tents. The smell of wet grass and steaming porridge hung in the air. Familiar sounds accompanied familiar smells: the clanging of pots and pans and tamp of marching caligae. Antony stood in the principia by the sacellum, the shrine which held the legion’s eagle. He was conscious of holding the meeting in the presence of the sacred totem. He would employ any device necessary to help stir loyalty and secure support. He had deliberately left a half-eaten centurion’s breakfast, of cooked meats and cheese, on the table. He wished to convey that, at heart, he was still one of them.

  Sunlight began to drift into the tent, as did the cadre of senior officers Antony had arranged to meet. He told himself again that he was here to bargain – not beg. He smiled and nodded but would wait for all six men to enter before he spoke.

  First was Cephas Pollux. Caesar had once joked that such was his hard-headedness that he need not wear a helmet into battle. Although usually as garrulous as a Spartan it would perhaps be this ardent Caesarian who would speak for the group. His rank and experience merited seniority.

  Next came Gratian Bibulus, limping a little from where the damp air was cramping up an old knee injury. There were fewer superstitious men in a devoutly superstitious army. After each battle he would order his cohort to dilute their wine with blood and toast their fallen comrades. He also abstained from sex until he earned the pleasure through the killing of an enemy.

  Felix Calvinus followed. His nickname was Paris due to his good looks and way with women. Enobarbus had informed Antony of his taste for gambling, as well as women. Providing the price was right, Calvinus’ loyalty could be bought, Antony surmised.

  Upon his heels entered Manius Sura. His nickname was Patroclus, such was his way with men. As he grew older his lovers grew younger. Drink appeared to be a vice too. The Etruscan’s nose was as red as the clay soil of his homeland.

  Aulus Milo’s bulkiness nigh on blocked out the light as he entered the tent. A blacksmith’s son from Ravenna, his immaculately maintained armour and weapons were a testament to his former mentor. Tiro Casca had taken the recruit under his wing upon first joining the army – and Antony thought how Milo would run him through in a second if he knew that he was behind the attack on Octavius which had led to his Casca’s demise.

  Matius Varro was last to enter. Like Enobarbus, Varro was as much a scholar as a soldier. His manner and education bespoke of a moneyed and privileged background yet Antony was unaware of his family and Varro’s life before the army. Although studious and somewhat introverted Matius was a good officer – and when he had a drink inside him he could be gregarious and entertaining. Many a time had Antony been there when Varro had enthralled half a cohort by reciting Homer around the campfire – or composing satirical epigrams about comrades or politicians. Varro had always intrigued Antony a little – perhaps now more than ever. For just as Matius’ past was a blank page Antony could not be rightly sure where his loyalties would lie in the future either. Varro had served under Caesar yet one often found him reading tracts by the likes of Cato or Brutus.

  Antony stood with his hand resting on the golden pommel of his long cavalry sword. Tanned, scarred, stubble-dusted faces stared back at him. The figures were a marriage of honour and savagery.

  “Gentlemen, welcome. Stand at ease. I may wear a toga more than a uniform nowadays but I am still as much your friend and comrade as I am your consul,” Antony warmly expressed, borrowing his opening from a speech which Caesar had once given to potentially mutinous officers. He approached the soldiers, smiling and clasping them heartily by the forearm in a Roman handshake.

  “Cephas, how are you? I trust you have had time to visit your wife, or at least your mistress? It has been a long time – too long. Much has changed.”

  “But not for the better,” the centurion gruffly replied, recalling the loss of Caesar.

  “No, Caesar’s death casts a shadow over us still. You are right,” Antony enjoined, whilst inwardly seething at the officer’s impudence. He retained his composure and gracious manner, however, to work his way down the line.

  “Bibulus, the last time I saw you we were in that brothel in Pisa. It was a shame that snowstorm kept us there an extra night, eh? ... Screwed any of my former mistresses lately, Calvinus? ... Sura, I have with me an amphora of your favourite vintage ... Milo, I was sorry to hear about Tiro Casca. I know you were close. He was an old friend to me too ... Varro, you are looking well. Enobarbus sends his regards.”

  Antony then beckoned for his attendants to serve some wine and food. Once the servants departed Antony formally opened proceedings.

  “You know why I am here. You can either refute these rumours or confirm them – and then what will be will be. It has come to my attention that a number of officers and wish to declare their loyalty to Octavius.” Sternness displaced warmth in the consul’s tone.

  As the officers had discussed beforehand, Pollux would speak for them.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

  “Granted.”

  “It is not our desire to choose between you and Octavius – but rather we wish to serve you both. The legions want you to become allies, not opponents. Only by operating together will we be strong enough to defeat the Senate’s forces and avenge Caesar’s murder.”

  “Are you somehow saying that I should treat this boy as my equal,
that we should hold joint command?” Antony replied, ire and bewilderment firing his aspect and flaring his nostrils. “He’s just a fucking boy, with about as much noble blood as a Gaulish drab. He has spent more time potty training than he has training to be a soldier.”

  Antony’s hands gripped the pommel of his sword even tighter but, despite his rush of blood, the weapon remained in its scabbard. Although brave enough to fight any man, Antony was smart enough to realise he could not defeat every man. In contrast to Antony’s fury and bombast the deputation of officers remained calm. Antony increasingly sympathised with the philosophy of Pompey and Caesar, that it was the army, rather than the Senate, who ultimately decided the fate of Rome. He currently needed the legions more than the legions needed him.

  “I apologise my friends. But be wary of the boy. He’ll fill your ears with promises rather than your purses with gold – whilst I will make good my word and grant every man an additional one hundred denarii who serves under my banner. You will be rewarded accordingly too.”

  “Octavius has promised five hundred denarii to every man.”

  “He is but a child, playing with pretend money. Your men can be spending my bonus within a fortnight. They may find it more difficult to cash in mere promises.”

  “The first payment from Caesar has already arrived, with a letter from Oppius to say that more will follow. And Oppius’ word is as good as any bond I warrant,” Aulus Milo announced in his rough, rural accent.

  The light dimmed outside and Antony could hear the faint splatter of rain against the tent. The offer – and its apparent acceptance – filled his breast with rage and astonishment and he shook his head in disappointment.

  “Have you become mercenaries rather than centurions – willing, like some harlot, to be purchased by the highest bidder? Has the rainy season washed away your honour? Does this eagle behind me mean nothing to you? You should be ashamed to look upon it.”