Augustus

IV

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

46–44 B.C.

He kept up with his old school friends, and, now that he had regular and free access to Caesar, he was able to do one of them a signal favor. Agrippa’s brother had been made a prisoner of war during the African campaign. Evidently he had fought on the republican side before and been pardoned, for Caesar tended to punish repeat offenders. Fearing for his brother’s life, Agrippa asked Octavius to put in a good word for the man. Octavius hesitated, for he had never yet used his special position in this way and knew Caesar’s anger with those who abused his clemency. Taking his courage in both hands, he made the request, which Caesar granted. This not only bound Agrippa to his friend, but won Octavius a reputation for loyalty.

Toward the end of September there were eleven days of victory celebrations, during which Caesar held an unprecedented four triumphs on four days. The Roman “triumph” was a military procession held by a general to mark outstanding success in a campaign against a foreign enemy. The dictator planned to mark the conquest of Gaul, the brief Egyptian war, the even briefer Asian war, and the defeat of Juba, the king of the northern African kingdom of Numidia. Juba was a stand-in for Cato and the republican army, Caesar’s real opponents: a fact that could not be openly admitted because they had been Roman citizens, with whom it was forbidden to go to war.

It so happened that Octavius’ seventeenth birthday fell during this festival of triumphs, on September 23; to honor his great-nephew, Caesar invited Octavius to accompany him in the parade for the African war and awarded him service medals as if he had actually served on his staff during the campaign. The day of the triumph will have been one of the most exciting in Octavius’ life so far. Here were fame and glory manifest, the ultimate prize to which a Roman could aspire.

The ceremony opened in the Campus Martius, the field of the war god, Mars, an open space northwest of the city (stretching roughly from today’s Piazza Venezia to Vatican City). This was originally the exercise ground of the army, but a number of important public buildings now dotted the area. One of these was the temple of Bellona, goddess of war and sister of Mars. The Senate met there to receive the victorious commander before following his triumphal procession into the city.

On the day of the triumph, Caesar arrayed himself in some of the attributes of Jupiter, king of the gods and protector of Rome. His face was smeared with the same red paint that covered the great statue of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. Underneath an embroidered toga, he wore a purple tunic interwoven with gold and embroidered with palm leaves, a symbol of victory.

After making a speech and presenting military awards and decorations, Caesar reviewed the troops. These were then marshaled in column of route, and Caesar mounted a gilded chariot. A slave stood on the chariot with him, to hold a golden crown above his head and say in his ear that he was mortal. Octavius rode proudly behind on a horse.

The procession moved off in the direction of the city. The Senate led the way, after which came trumpeters and garlanded white oxen with gilded horns; the oxen would be sacrificed later. Then followed the spoils of war and floats with tableaux and paintings illustrating highlights of the African campaign. These caused outrage, Octavius noticed. One of the paintings carried on the floats depicted the republican general Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio stabbing himself in the chest and then throwing himself into the sea; in another, worse still, Cato was shown tearing himself apart like a wild animal. It would have been far wiser to avoid any mention of battles fought by Romans against Romans, but Caesar had still not forgiven his old opponent Cato for evading his forgiveness. As the floats were driven along the narrow city streets the crowd, too intimidated by the soldiery to do more, groaned.

Finally, Caesar and his legions arrived. The soldiers, carrying sprays of laurel, exercised their traditional privilege of singing satirical and sometimes ribald songs about their commander. They had a good deal to say about his reputation for philandering.

On the Capitoline, the ceremonies drew to a close with a mass sacrifice of the oxen, followed by a banquet in the Temple of Jupiter. To the sound of flutes, Caesar was escorted home to the Domus Publica, the official residence of the pontifex maximus.

The triumphs were interspersed with a varied diet of extremely costly spectacles, including theater and dance performances and chariot races in a stadium called the Circus Maximus beneath the Palatine Hill. The most popular attraction in a crowded program of events was a gladiatorial contest. Such contests were usually held in the Forum, where a temporary wooden arena was erected above a network of tunnels beneath the pavement. In these tunnels the gladiators would wait for their turn in the arena.

It is very hard to understand the appeal of killing human beings as entertainment. In the developed world, few people regularly encounter physical violence, but in premodern societies, as in the developing world today, pain, disease, and the frequency of sudden or premature death were routine and expected. Against this background, Rome’s imperial success rested on a culture of military prowess. War was glorious. Young men were trained to inflict and to endure violent death, and to value personal heroism above most other virtues. Indeed, virtus, from which the English word derives, not only encompassed manliness and moral excellence but conjoined these to the concept of physical courage.

The gladiatorial shows had originated centuries before, as human sacrifices, conducted in the community’s most sacred space, the Forum. Before it became a public square, the Forum was a marshy area where the villagers who lived on the surrounding hills buried their dead; perhaps a faint memory of this primary function survived in people’s minds. The victims’ blood sank between the flagstones to slake the thirst of the manes, the spirits of the dear departed who lived a sad, otherwise bloodless life in the underworld.

Most gladiators (the name comes from the Latin for sword, gladius) were slaves, but some citizens joined a gladiatorial troupe of their own free will. The profession gave asylum to social outcasts, the dispossessed, the bankrupt, and men on the run. Free fighters were much sought after, presumably because they performed with more zest than those who did so under compulsion. A volunteer won a bonus if he survived to the end of his contract. The contract was a fearsome document, threatening any who broke it with burning, shackling, whipping with rods, and killing with steel. In effect, it made a temporary slave of the signatory.

Successful gladiators became household names. On the one hand, they were the lowest of the low, ranking alongside male prostitutes and the worst categories of criminal, such as the parricide, and had lost all their dignitas as human beings. On the other hand, they were sexy pinups, as the graffiti at Pompeii show: Celadus the Thracian was “a girl’s heart throb and shining delight,” and Crescens the retiarius (net fighter) “every virgin’s doctor in the night.”

Some promoters were proud of allowing no losers to escape death, although this would make the games much more expensive; these contests were called munera sine missione, games without quarter. The death rate in the gladiatorial profession is unknown, but it was probably lower than blood-thirsty descriptions would imply. There is evidence of fighters surviving many bouts, eventually receiving their freedom (symbolized by a wooden sword) and retiring into provincial respectability. In this sanguinary form of live theater, an imaginative impresario could stage-manage suspense and copious blood without excessive mortality.

Another spectacle that drew the crowds was the wild-beast hunt, or venatio. All kinds of animal were captured in different corners of the empire and brought back to Rome to end their lives in the arena. Thousands could be killed in a day. Men armed with spears, bows, daggers, and even firebrands, and sometimes accompanied by packs of hounds, battled with terrified and enraged panthers and lions, leopards and tigers. Red cloths were waved in front of bulls, in a precursor of the modern Spanish bullfight. Other creatures that were hunted, if more rarely, included hippopotami, ostriches, and crocodiles. Caesar staged five venationes during the festivities, in one of which he pitted elephants against each other. In addition, he imported six hundred lions and four hundred other large cats.

It was widely noticed that at the theatrical events and public banquets, Octavius was invariably in attendance on his great-uncle, who treated him as affectionately as if he were his own son. At sacrifices and when entering temples for religious rituals, he kept the young man by his side and he arranged for others taking part in these public occasions to give him precedence.

Increasingly, suppliants approached Octavius and asked him to intercede for them with Caesar in one way or another. His success with Agrippa’s brother and his growing familiarity with the dictator gave him the courage to put forward requests, which seem to have been invariably granted. This was, in large part, because of the tactful approach he adopted. Nicolaus observes: “He took care never to ask a favour at an inopportune moment, nor when it was annoying to Caesar.”

Caesar decided it was time to give the young man some administrative experience. He turned over to him the responsibility for managing the theatrical program of the triumphal celebrations. Keen to show his commitment, Octavius stayed to the end of all the performances, even on the hottest and longest days. This strained his already delicate health and he fell seriously ill.

Caesar was beside himself with anxiety and, to cheer him up, visited the sufferer every day or sent friends in his place. Doctors were in permanent attendance. On one occasion a message came while he was dining that Octavius had suffered a serious relapse and was in danger of dying. The dictator leaped up at once and ran barefooted to the house where Octavius lay. Frantic and deeply upset, he cross-examined the doctors about their patient’s prognosis and then sat down by the boy’s bedside. Gradually Octavius recovered, but he remained weak for some time.

The nature of Octavius’ illness on this occasion is not known; it may have been a severe bout of sunstroke.

The triumphs were quickly followed by Cleopatra’s arrival in Rome as Caesar’s houseguest. Her journey from Egypt was delayed until after the Egyptian triumph. One of the captives in the procession had been her sister Arsinoe, who had been briefly recognized as queen by the Alexandrians before falling into Caesar’s hands, but, although she loathed her, Cleopatra had not wished to witness her sibling led in chains and her kingdom presented as a vanquished power.

The queen was accompanied by the youngest of her brothers, and new husband, the fifteen-year-old Ptolemy XIV, and, it may be assumed, a substantial retinue. Doubtless she was accompanied by her baby son, Caesarion. Caesar lodged them all in his mansion set in lovely gardens (his hortus) on the other side of the Tiber near the southeastern corner of the Janiculum Hill. Here Cleopatra held court and received Rome’s senior politicians. Her airs and graces of royalty did not go down well among Rome’s determinedly republican elite, even when accompanied by lavish presents and cultivated entertainments. Men like the orator Cicero cordially disliked her, for all the queen’s efforts to ingratiate herself.

It may be surmised that Cleopatra returned the compliment, with equal cordiality. Her mind-set was irredeemably autocratic. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the noisy bear pit of Roman politics and for competing aristocrats who refused to acknowledge that anyone was superior to them. Back in Alexandria her response to dissent was to use force and she must have been bewildered by Caesar’s policy of clemency.

Neither Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, nor the convalescent Octavius has left a recorded opinion of the Egyptian interloper, but neither can have been pleased by the presence of a rival for both his affections and his limited time.

It turned out, maddeningly, that the fighting was not over after all. The two sons of Pompey the Great, Gnaeus and Sextus, aged about thirty and sixteen respectively, had extricated themselves from the African debacle and made their way to Spain, where their father had had a large and faithful clientela.

The client system was a crucial feature of Roman life and politics. A powerful Roman was a patron, or protector, for many hundreds or even thousands of clients, not just in Rome and Italy, but also across the Mediterranean. These networks of mutual aid cut across social classes and linked Romans to people in the provinces.

Clientship was not legally binding, but its rules were almost always obeyed. A patron’s client list lasted from generation to generation and was handed down from father to son.

A patron looked after his clients’ interests. He would help them out by giving them food, money, or small parcels of land, or by standing up for them if they got into trouble with the law. In return, clients were expected to support their patron in any way they could—voting as he wished at assemblies and campaigning on his behalf when he stood for office. In Rome, clients would pay their respects at their patron’s house every morning and walk with him to the Forum.

Gradually Gnaeus raised an army of thirteen legions, although many of these were inexperienced Spaniards. The dictator’s legates in Spain were unable to make headway against the rebels; by the beginning of November 46 B.C., it became clear that Caesar’s personal intervention was required to put out a fire that had reignited and was blazing out of control. At short notice, Caesar set off for yet another campaign. Rome, once again, was left waiting for news.

Caesar had hoped to have Octavius accompany him to Spain; this time, there seems to have been no parental objection. Now in his eighteenth year, he was no longer a child, and for those of his social class the next step in one’s education was a spell of service on a general’s staff. Evasion would have been seen as evidence of cowardice.

Unfortunately, the young man had not yet fully recovered from his illness; his great-uncle told him to follow as soon as he was well enough. Anxious to leave Rome as soon as possible, Octavius gave his full attention to restoring his health. Even before he was perfectly well, he made arrangements for his journey—in his words, “according to my uncle’s instructions,” for that was how he referred to Caesar when he sought prompt compliance with his demands.

Many volunteers wanted to join his expedition, including (to his intense embarrassment, we may guess) his mother. Like many parents of children with a weak constitution, Atia was finding it difficult to let go of her grown-up son. In the event, Octavius selected a very small escort from among his strongest and speediest servants. He was also accompanied by three of his closest companions, among them, it can be assumed, his dear friend Agrippa.

He had a dangerous journey. It is not known exactly when he set out or which route he took. During the winter months, sailing was unsafe, and it is plausible that he left Rome in February or March and followed the land route via southern France. Once Octavius had reached Spain, though, he would have encountered signs of the enemy, who dominated the north, and of brigands, too. He may then have taken his courage in both hands and boarded a ship at Tarraco (today’s Tarragona).

Despite the risky weather it would be safer to sail down the coast to Nova Carthago (Cartageña), which, all being well, would still be in Caesar’s hands and where he would be fairly sure either to find him or at least to establish his whereabouts. This was a sensible decision, but sailing anywhere in the winter months could be dangerous. Boats seldom drew more than three hundred tons and were often struck by sudden Mediterranean squalls; the compass not having been invented, sailors tended to hug the coasts. Presumably a storm did overtake Octavius, for he apparently suffered a shipwreck before reaching his destination.

He and his small party arrived to find the war over and Caesar victorious. Once again he had missed the chance to blood himself in a real battle. He soon briefed himself on the lightning campaign:

After some maneuvering, the two armies had met at Munda (near Osuna in southern Spain) on March 5, 45 B.C. Caesar was a commander of genius; he was decisive, brave, and, even in the heat of battle capable of creative thinking. He understood the importance of luck in war, and he worked hard to earn it. In particular, he prided himself on his celeritas, moving his forces with great speed and turning up where and when the enemy least expected him. His weakness was an occasional overconfidence, but he always managed to extricate himself from problems of his own making. For once, though, there had been no refinements of strategy, no brilliant insights on the battlefield by the commander. Munda had been a blood-soaked slog.

Most of the Pompeian leaders died fighting and their heads were brought to Caesar for his inspection. There was no revulsion now, one notes, as had been the case when Pompey the Great’s head had been presented to him in Egypt. Gnaeus escaped the battle, but was quickly caught and killed. His head, too, found its way to the victor, who had it displayed to the crowd to prove the death, and then buried.

Nobody was greatly bothered when it was noticed that Gnaeus’ little brother, Sextus, had slipped away and disappeared from view. He was surely too young and inexperienced to cause trouble. Sooner or later the boy would turn up and there would be plenty of time to deal with him then.

About the battle, Caesar remarked wryly: “I have often fought for victory, but on this occasion I fought for my life as well.”

Octavius eventually caught up with Caesar near a town called Caepia, where he was presumably still conducting mopping-up operations. The busy general was delighted and surprised to see his great-nephew and enfolded him in a warm embrace. In fact, he would not let Octavius out of his sight, but made him live in his own quarters and share his mess. He complimented the young man on his enthusiasm and loyalty—and also will have remarked on his astuteness, for he was among the first of what would become a flood of dignitaries making their way from Rome to greet, and sometimes make their peace with, the all-conquering dictator. Octavius had not waited, as others had, for the outcome of the war before setting out on a long and dangerous expedition.

During the month or so before leaving Spain, Caesar went out of his way to get to know his great-nephew better. According to Nicolaus, “He made a point of engaging him in conversation, for he was anxious to make a trial of his understanding, and finding that he was sagacious, intelligent, and concise in his replies, and that he always answered to the point, his esteem and affection for him increased.” As the weeks passed, Caesar gradually came to a final, firm, and highly positive view of his young relative.

Years later, Octavius’ enemies claimed that he slept with his great-uncle in return for his favor and affection. It is true that Octavius was a pretty boy, that Caesar may have been sexually omnivorous, and that Roman laws against incest prohibited only sexual relations between paternal kin. However, military campaigns are not an ideal setting for romance, and sex between soldiers was an offense: a wise commander would not break the rules he expected the rank and file to obey. Had there been anything much in the story, it would surely have been common gossip at the time and received wider and earlier currency in contemporary accounts.

Caesar’s next destination was Nova Carthago; he arranged for Octavius to board the same boat as his, together with five of his personal slaves. Without seeking permission, Octavius could not resist slipping his three closest companions aboard as well. Doubtless the journey was to be in a naval galley, where most of the limited space below decks was taken up by rows of oarsmen and space was at a premium. Not unnaturally, Octavius feared that his great-uncle would be cross, but there was no trouble. Caesar approved of Octavius’ friends, whom he found to be observant, enthusiastic, and competitive. It was good that Octavius liked to have them around him—partly for protection, but also to enhance his own reputation as someone supported by men of good sense.

Caesar had to decide everything and, like rulers in all ancient, pre-bureaucratic societies, he was obliged to spend much time receiving petitions, agreeing on and bestowing awards and rewards, and adjudicating quarrels. Octavius was able to help. He had already learned the art of mediating between his great-uncle and the rest of the world, every member of which seemed to have an urgent demand.

A long queue of petitioners sought Octavius’ good offices, as they had done a few months previously in Rome. This role of benevolent broker had surely been agreed in advance between him and the dictator, partly to smooth the conduct of business but also as on-the-job training in public administration.

At last it was time to go home—to Calpurnia and Cleopatra, to Atia and Philippus. The civil war was definitely over. No enemy was left standing. What now? This was a hard question to answer. At the pinnacle of his success, Caesar should have had little on his mind to trouble him. But like so many conquerors before and after, he had learned the hard lesson that military victory does not necessarily win consent from the vanquished.

The army soon encountered streams of noble Romans approaching from the opposite direction. Everyone of importance had felt it necessary to take to the road and greet the Republic’s new master. At Narbo (today’s Narbonne), Mark Antony arrived, to find that his misgovernment of Italy in 49 B.C. had been forgiven. So far as Caesar was concerned, their quarrel was over. He invited Antony to ride with him, displacing Octavius, who traveled in the following carriage with another Caesarian supporter, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus.

Under the pressure of the dictator’s displeasure, the reprobate appeared to have turned over a new leaf, toned down his public extravagances, and directed his thoughts to marriage. His eye lighted on Fulvia, the widow first of a murdered gang leader, and then of a Caesarian tribune. The alliance was as much political as personal. According to one ancient commentator, she had “nothing womanly about her except for her body.” Intelligent and intemperate, she was able, and more than willing, to give her new husband some sensible career guidance.

The dictator and his entourage arrived in northern Italy in July. He planned to hold a triumph in October, but the legal fiction that it marked a victory over a foreign enemy was embarrassingly unconvincing. Nevertheless, he observed the convention that a conquering general had to remain outside Rome until the date of his processional entry into the city.

He made for an estate of his southeast of Rome at Labici (today’s Monte Compatri), where he spent a few weeks. Here he was able to find some peace and quiet, and time for thought. For years, he had been extraordinarily busy, fighting or legislating, and he needed a holiday. He was aware, too, that his health was deteriorating; his proneness to what may have been a form of epilepsy, or spells of dizziness, was getting worse. He was reported to have had a fit in Africa and another on the day of the battle of Munda.

It is probable that Octavius stayed with him for a while. Their relationship was becoming closer and closer, and Octavius, who had tested his physical stamina to the limit, would have profited from a rest as well. At some point he asked leave to go home to see his mother, who had doubtless pressed him to do so in a letter, and Caesar gave his permission.

Although he was approaching his eighteenth birthday, Octavius retreated into domesticity. After the excitements of his Spanish adventure, his life became quiet and uneventful. He spent much of his time with his mother and stepfather, seldom leaving them. Occasionally he invited some of his young friends to dinner, Agrippa and Maecenas presumably among them. He lived soberly and moderately. Nicolaus reports that, unlike many upper-class young Romans, especially those with access to money, he abstained from “sexual gratification.”

Octavius’ good behavior is as likely to reflect a concern for his health as a virtuous disposition. This was an age when the principles of hygiene were little understood, surgery was life-threatening, medicines and medical advice were of uncertain value, and few illnesses were easily cured. Unsurprisingly, many Romans concentrated their attention on prevention. According to Celsus, a medical expert who wrote in the first century A.D., a healthy man “should sail, hunt, rest sometimes, but more often take exercise.” He should spend time in the countryside and on the farm as well as in town. Doctors advised that people whose health was delicate should take care to avoid any kind of physical excess. We may take it that Octavius and his ever-anxious mother did exactly that.

Caesar set in motion a flurry of important social and economic measures, but he was wearying of Rome with its tiresome and self-destructive politics. He had received reports of a conspiracy against his life. If he had ever intended to reform and restore the constitution, he now gave up the attempt. He would leave Rome to its own devices, for power lay wherever he happened to be, not in the Senate House or Forum. He was worried by the growth of a Dacian empire in the untamed region of the southern Danube. The barbarians there needed to be taught a sharp military lesson.

Also, the Parthian empire had been restive since Crassus’ failed invasion of 53 B.C. Once the Dacians were dealt with, Caesar decided to lead a great punitive expedition against it. He began to assemble an army of sixteen legions and ten thousand cavalry; six thousand troops had already crossed over to Greece and, encamped near the city of Apollonia, awaited the launch of the campaign the following March. He expected to be away for three years.

Since the victory in Spain, the Senate had awarded him ever more extravagant honors. Caesar was allowed to add the word imperator, “commander in chief,” to his name as a hereditary addition (until then it had been awarded by soldiers in the field after an important victory); likewise, his son or adopted son was to be designated pontifex maximus on his death. These two heavy hints pointed to the possible establishment of a dynasty, even if no obvious successor existed, or was even on the horizon.

The dictator loved women but begot few children; the only known offspring had been a beloved daughter, Julia, and (one assumes) Caesarion. If he had no legitimate son himself, he would have to find somebody else’s. Adoption was common in Roman life, a strategy for binding clans to one another, as well as for making good genetic deficits. Kinship and loyalty to the familia and gens were valued very highly, but little attention was paid to strict blood ties. Men often adopted the grown sons of others.

Octavius will have pondered these matters. Where, if at all, did he fit into this glorious future? Might he, at some stage, be designated his great-uncle’s heir? These were daydreams. The dictator showed no sign of leaving the stage, and even if he were to do so, Octavius was far too young and inexperienced to step into his giant shoes. If Caesar lived another ten years, and if Octavius proved himself worthy of responsibility, then, just possibly, he might be seen as a potential ruler with all the gravitas and auctoritas such a figure would have to command…. For now, though, Octavius had more immediate matters to engage his attention.

The dictator was burdened with business, but he did not forget his great-nephew. He decided that the boy would accompany him on the great Parthian campaign planned for the next spring. Toward the end of 45 B.C., he sent him to Apollonia. There the young man would spend four months completing his education in literature and public speaking.

He would also undertake training with the army, as it awaited its general and the long march to the east. At last Octavius would acquire some military experience.